


The Dawn Will Come

by philliam



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: ASHEN WOLVES DLC SPOILERS chpt. 6 - 7/8, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Smut, It's basically everyone/everyone, Lost Twin Au, Multi, Multiple Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Reader-Insert, Reluctant Hero, Slow Burn, Subplots, Tactical Unit, Temporary Amnesia, Unreliable Narrator, Your Unit | Reader, Your Unit | Tactician, but don't count on it, everyone's a bicon, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2020-09-28 17:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20430101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philliam/pseuds/philliam
Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn't help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise._________________________________"I thought I'd come here and one of the Church's healers would just wave their hands to return my memories," you mumble, scribbling a tiny Claude with little, evil horns on his head in the corner of Linhardt's notes.Edelgard looks at you like you've just insulted her whole noble lineage. "That isn't how magic works."You throw your arms up in frustration to emphasise that yes, that's the point. You don't know how anything works in this place, and you doubt Byleth's four pages of lesson plans are going to help.





	1. A High Destiny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fire Emblem Three Houses is the only game that matters this year, fight me on this.  
Also shame on me, I still have only one route done (Golden Deer ftw). Hopefully I'll manage to proceed in the Blue Lions' route this weekend (because Dimitri can spit in my mouth and I'd thank him).

**Part I**

Before the Dawn

_I say that the tomb that closes upon the dead_   
_opens the heavenly hall;_   
_And that what we here below take for the end_   
_is the beginning_

[Victor Hugo, À Villequier]

* * *

Chapter 01: A High Destiny

_A high destiny seemed to bear me on_   
_until I fell, never, never again to rise._

[Mary W. Shelley, Frankenstein] 

It starts as it will end: in darkness.

Black dots dance in front of your eyes, merging into dark shadows clawing at your consciousness. A dull throb pounds in your temple, a steady rhythm that speaks of life but isn’t enough to allow awareness of your surroundings. Memory is a foreign word you can’t explain, and trying to think of the past 24 hours is an unachievable task. Every glimpse slips through your fingers like sand, and the only steady reference point is the solid ground pressing into your hands and back.

Slowly, you open your eyes. Treetops dance in the wind, towering above you like silent guardians of ancient times. The sun winks at you through thick branchesa and dancing green crowns, indicating it’s long past daybreak—but how do you know? Your memory is still a vast pool with no bottom and no means to dive into, and yet you think there’s a voice calling out to you, a heart-wrenching young, boyish voice—no, those are real voices ringing through the woods, appearing close to you. Alarmingly close.

“You’re awake,” a woman’s voice starts, moments later followed by a corresponding face. Round, lavender eyes surrounded by thick, white lashes peak from above at you, blinking curiously. It’s an expression far from friendly, but not exactly hostile either, and of all the things you can think of at this moment, it is how strikingly beautiful she is. But before you can say anything, another person joins, leaning too close in for comfort.

“You got us worried there, stranger,” a young man chimes in, squatting down beside you. His uniform isn’t exactly what you’d call fit for travelling through the woods. A heavy yellow cape falls over his shoulder, more fanciful display than practical use. But something in his posture seems very attentive, his broad shoulders taut like a drawn bowstring that won’t miss its target. “Weird place to take a nap, but hey, I’m not judging.”

“I wasn’t—” you start, immediately struck by a throbbing pain behind your right eye that reverberates through your skull and wretches a groan from you.

“Take it easy,” another voice joins, and panic spreads through you because of the amount of people surrounding you. Where the first man is a picture of warm colours—gold and sun kissed skin nourished on warm summer days, the other man observing you with a worried expression is clad in blue and black, blond hair falling into a pale face that carries the most striking blue eyes you’ve ever seen. Or so you think, because surely a colour like this, a blue stolen right out of the sky, wouldn’t be easily forgotten.

More movement and rustling of fabric, and a chill settles in your bones as you begin to fear that you’ve run into a bunch of ruffians who’ve only kept you alive for so long because they’re hoping for valuable information. More people emerge from the underbrush, carrying large sacks and backpacks with billycans dangling at their sides. Among them, a tall man with a beard, clad in robust mercenary’s gear, steps forward, concealing another young woman with sharp features and unusual greenish blue hair.

The sight of her strikes you like a bolt. It tastes like familiarity and the relief of being reunited with a long lost friend. But that is impossible. This is the first time you meet her.

Is it?

“You brats, I told you not to head off too far,” the older man bellows, crossing logs for arms in front of his broad chest. The first three take one big, polite step away from you, but don’t look apologetic at all.

“I’m sorry for our hastiness, Captain Jeralt,” the girl says, her eyes darting from you still sitting on the ground to him towering in his full height above them. “But it seems we would have otherwise not found this person.”

“This person who wasn’t really much conscious a couple of minutes ago,” the boy in yellow adds with a crooked grin. “How bad would it have been if someone else would have beaten us to it?”

“No need to make me look like the bad guy,” Captain Jeralt interrupts with a raised hand before the boy in blue can join his friends' justifications. Instead, he turns to you and regards you with a scrutinising look.

“What are you doing out here?” he demands. “Where’s your family? Friends?”

“Uhm, they’re—” you start, but nothing comes to your mind. Not only that. You don’t know why you’re out here, where you are exactly … and basically anything that should come to you about your own person remains shrouded in darkness. “I don’t know.”

Jeralt nods like that explains the very reason you’re still sitting on the ground like a misplaced cargo of cabbage. He kneads the nape of his neck, his face softening the tiniest bit. “And what’s your name?”

Unable to hold his piercing eyes, you drop your gaze to the ground, curling your trembling fingers into the fabric of your wool jacket. “I, uh… don’t know.”

If you thought you didn’t have their attention before, now their eyes are glued on your face in different levels of shock and disbelief.

“A case of amnesia?” the blond male says, not quite managing to achieve the right balance between blatant curiosity and polite worry. “Does this mean you have nowhere to go? Don’t_ know_ where to go?”

“Goddess help you, Dimitri,” the other boy groans, running a hand through his short, brown hair. “Be any more tactless, will ya?”

“He isn’t wrong,” the girl says, observing you like you’re a fascinating new specimen in her collection of strange things. “You need a place to stay. And help until your memories return.”

_If they return_, you don’t dare to say because despite all things, hope still clings to you in the deepest corner of your heart, not allowing you to follow that train of thought and what it will mean for your future.

“Then by all means, if you want to join,” Jeralt says, waving a dismissive hand in your direction. “I don’t think you kids accept a No, so I’m going to save my breath.” He turns around with a grunt. “Get them your horse, Byleth. We’re late as it is, and another night of Alois talking my ears off will make me do something I’ll regret.”

The woman called Byleth keeps staring at you even as Jeralt walks past her and gives her shoulder a solid clap. You can’t say if she’s mute or just speechless because she’s filled with the same strange overflowing sensation like you: like a basin filling with water but unable to drain off. It appears you’re the same age, a couple of years older than the other three but still much younger than Jeralt, and yet the moment your eyes lock, it feels like there is something far older than any of you together passing between you. Something ancient.

“Well, first off, on your feet, little one.” Strong hands curl around your elbows, hoisting you up in one swift movement. A wave of dizziness hits you like an unavoidable spell, and the pounding from before settles back behind your right eye.

“Amazing, Claude,” the girl hisses, and quickly steps forward to steady you, pressing one hand against the small of your back where her strong fingers curl against the curve of your spine. Her other hand gently holds yours as she helps you regain your balance. “Excuse his manners. I promise not everyone from the Officers Academy behaves like a brute.”

“The what now?” you ask, hit by another wave of dizziness that might originate more from the girl’s soft lavender fragrance rather than the world spinning around you.

“The Officers Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery,” Dimitri provides this time. His posture is straight like an arrow, the stance of a soldier speaking to his officer. “That is where we attend as students and hence are going right now.”

“And you want me to come with you?” you ask like you have the option to refuse and go somewhere else. Strangely, the thought of joining a group of armed knights and mercenaries doesn’t fill you with fear or anxiety. You’re about to tread into foreign waters, and yet your heart is calm like a still compass guiding you in the right direction.

Claude clasps his hands behind his head like he’s got nothing to do with you feeling unwell at the moment. “Unless you have another place to be?”

Luckily, your head does come clear and breathing becomes a little easier. You nod to the girl and she holds you a second longer before she nods back and lets go. “I guess not,” you mumble, looking at each one of them. Byleth still hasn’t moved. By now you can’t really tell if she’s looking at you or _through_ you. Surely, she would have said something by now if she thought you were familiar, right?

“Then it’s settled.” The girl nods solemnly, throwing her silky, white hair over her shoulder. “We welcome you in our company. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Edelgard von Hresvelg, heir to the Adrestian Empire.” Edelgard gives you a tight-lipped smile that quickly thins into a white line when the other two introduce themselves as Claude von Riegan, grandson of the Sovereign Duke of the Leicester Alliance and Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, future king to the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. None of these names ring a bell to you, but you nod, pretending to know exactly what they're talking about.

“Okay, we need a name for you as well,” Claude proposes, tapping a slender finger against his chin. He has a strikingly sharp jaw that looks fit to cut stone. “Can’t have everyone call you stranger or little one now, can we?”

“No,” you say. “Especially since we’re about the same height.”

Claude laughs like you just told him the best joke he’s heard in years. “Soo, since we found you here … how about Glade? Or Woody?”

“How about no,” you say with furrowed eyebrows.

“Apologies.” Edeglard sighs and shakes her head, her expression a mix between disappointment and annoyance. “Claude isn’t much accustomed to the notion of consideration.”

Claude rolls his eyes. “Then you come up with something, princess. Or is it impossible because you can’t take out the stick up your—”

“_Claude_,” Dimitri half shrieks, his pale cheeks splotched with red dots. As he stumbles over his own words trying to apologise for Claude’s behaviour, Edelgard simply deadpans, “Bold words for someone in stabbing range.”

The fourth in this round of strange people considers you with a blank expression, her steady gaze like a solid touch on your skin. Before a greater argument can break free between the students, Byleth says a name with a surety like she’s never said anything else in her life, and hearing it, this barely whispered word immediately lost to the wind, you just _know_ it’s your name.

“Yes, much better than what Claude proposed.” Dimitri nods, regaining his composure even though he’s still staring daggers at Claude. “It sounds more civilised as well.”

“You didn’t even suggest anything,” Claude remarks, but the huff of annoyance quickly dissipates from his voice when he jerks a thumb towards Byleth. “That’s Byleth, by the way. Funny story is, we met her just a couple of hours ago as well.”

“Fate must have brought us together here today,” Dimitri agrees with a solemn nod. “I swear on my honour as a noble knight from the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus that I will see you safe to the Monastery. Lady Rhea will surely be able to help you there.”

“Okay. Thank you,” you manage, unable to connect a face to this name in your head that feels like it’s about to burst any second anyway. The only course of action lies within those strangers who are so willingly offering help that you can’t stop worrying it’s a ruse. But without anything to offer them except your life, there’s little coming to your mind that they can anticipate in taking you with them. Tthe fact that Byleth knew your name doesn’t sit right with you as well. There’s something waiting to be grasped at the tips of your fingers, and yet you lack the strength to embrace it.

Following the little group of soldiers and students through the woods, you remain silent on the journey, only answering questions with approving or denying hums. How _did_ you end up in this particular forest? According to Jeralt, you’re currently moving away from a village called Remire and towards the mountains to the northeast where the monastery lies tucked away between two mountains. Judging from the clothes you’re wearing, you’re a commoner, and when Edelgard pushed a slim dagger in your hand, nothing rung in intuitive knowledge about how to handle a weapon. Your mind remained silent, like an untouched chord.

There’s little you can say about the first impression those people left on you. There seems to be a unanimous dispute between the three students, hanging palpable in the air whenever an argument starts that’s pregnant with implied insults or passive-aggressive comments. From that you gather there’s tension between the governing fractions in Fódlan, something else you’ve learnt from listening to them squabbling.

Byleth and Jeralt acknowledge their bickering as if it was flies buzzing around their heads. They keep more to themselves and their mercenary comrades, indicating they’re really as much of strangers to the students as you. Their conversations are a lot quieter as well, their heads leaning close together for the illusion of privacy. More than once you notice Byleth sneaking glances in your direction, and every time you lock eyes, there’s something close to comprehension when she looks at you. The further you march through the woods, the less you try to meet her gaze. Reaching the monastery is the first step to regain who you are, or so you hope, because the opposite would mean you’ll continue stumbling through the darkness with no lead to your past or why you’re in this particular part of Fódlan, and you can only hope that this Rhea person really will be able to help you.

A sound from the underbrush cuts through your thoughts.

Thinking it might be an animal, you don’t let it bother you too much. No one else seems to have heard it, so maybe it was just your imagination. But your brain refuses to let it rest, and fails to push it away from your mind because something about the sound doesn’t seem to be right. The more you try to focus on it though, the blurrier it gets; the less you understand its origin.

Then, you hear a voice from within the woods. It sounds like a slurred whisper.

“What was that?” You stop in the middle of the road, looking around the thick trees. Claude barely manages to avoid walking into you. “What was what?”

“There’s something here.” Unable to explain further, you wave your hand around for emphasis. He looks at your hand, incomprehension written all over his face. “And that something is what exactly?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” You wave your hand wilder. “But I don’t have a good feeling venturing further.”

“You may be still tired,” Edelgard offers, not hiding her irritation that the journey stopped. “It won’t be long until we reach Garreg Mach. You can rest however long you need inside the monastery’s infirmary.”

“I’m not tired,” you hiss, hand falling back to your side where it clenches into a fist. “I just really don’t think we should go further for now.”

“And why is that?” Dimitri inquirers. He raises a hand and the soldiers following them come to a halt, a murmur of unrest breathing through their lines, and it’s just enough that you question if it would be better to play if off and admit your mind is playing tricks on you due to exhaustion.

But whenever you blink, a red veil falls over your right eye, blurring your surroundings. Little red dots move slowly in the distance through the forest. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it’s some sort of life form far away, slowly advancing on your position. “Because someone is coming,” you finally manage, scratching the thin skin below your irritated eye that’s started twitching slightly. “Someone is coming towards us from southwest. And I can’t say if they’re friendly or not.”

Three pairs of eyes consider you like you’ve grown a second head. Only Byleth stares into the woods like she might find the strangers you’re talking about waiting behind the trees if she just looks hard enough.

“Little one, are you sure this isn’t just an aftereffect from you hitting your head?” Claude offers, squinting into the woods. You’re pretty sure he’s staring directly at the moving dots but for whatever reason can’t see them.

“Unless amnesia is suddenly another term for going crazy, I don’t think so,” you snap, unable to hold back the irritation raising to the surface.

A whistle echoes through the tree crowns. Byleth snaps her head in the direction of the sound, growing all tense. She raises her hand into a tight fist, and all movement stills behind you. When you turn around, you see the mercenaries waiting in the underbrush like a flock of crows ready to swipe down on their prey. Jeralt breaks away from them and approaches Byleth, a frown cutting a deep wrinkle into his forehead.

“Bandits,” he says, and quickly signs a hand gesture to the nearest bowman. He nods and disappears between trees. “Another mile away. If we stay on this road, we’ll walk right into them.”

“Seven hundred feet, actually,” you blurt. Jeralt looks at you like you’re a cockroach under his boot. Another whistle cuts through the woods, one long followed quickly by two short. Byleth exhales audibly, and only now you notice she’s moved to stand beside you. “Seven hundred feet,” she mutters, her eyes fixed on you.

Jeralt tenses. “How do you know, kid?”

“I don’t know,” you mumble towards your boots. “I just _see_.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence falling around you, and you’re too afraid to look up and read distrust in their eyes.

“Does it matter?” Claude finally breaks the silence, sliding his bow from his shoulder. “They won’t be a problem with the knights and mercenaries on our side.” He jerks his chin towards Byleth, already plugging an arrow from his quiver. “You should really see her fight.”

“Wait,” you say, reflexively reaching for the hem of his cape. “Don’t engage them yet.”

Claude stops, one eyebrow arched up in a curve. “Beg your pardon?”

“They come from the woods. Which means this is their hunting ground and they have the advantage. They have dozens of archers. I think they’re waiting until you reach a glade. And then open fire.”

“Which means we’ll end up as skewers.” Claude scratches his chin and twirls the arrow between his slender fingers. “I can think of better ways to shuffle off this mortal coil.”

Dimitri perks up. “You’ve read the Tale of Hamelot I gave you?”

“I’ll give it a six out of ten. His soliloquies were awful.”

“Boys.” Edelgard snaps her fingers impatiently as Dimitri opens his mouth to protest. “Not the time.” She takes your wrist and pulls it away from Claude’s cape, her hard gaze like a sharp knife. “Are we simply ignoring the fact that we have someone in our midst knowing the enemies’ movement and deployment?” she cuts in harshly. “Is this a plan to lure us into an ambush?”

“You think someone would give away their comrades’ position just like that?” Claude eyes her wearily. “Don’t be so suspicious of everyone.”

She glares at him. “I rather be suspicious than dead.”

Which is a valid point and a trait you willingly admit to share with her, but that doesn’t really solve the problem at hand. Luckily, Dimitri seems to think the same. He doesn’t unfasten the spear on his back yet, but his fingers dance swiftly over the handle, immediately resting on where he can easily pull it from the straps if needed to strike down an enemy. “Fact is enemies are approaching,” he concludes, looking at his fellow students in search for a consensual ceasefire. “We must put an end to them before they target defenceless travellers on their way out of the forest.”

“Spoken like a true crowd-pleaser,” Claude says, either unable or not caring to hide the mock in his voice. “We can resolve our new friend’s condition after we take down the enemy.”

“I don’t agree with this,” Edelgard declares, but nonetheless unclasps the double-bit axe from her back and swings it on her shoulder like it weighs nothing. “But I accept that this is a more pressing issue.” The easiness in the movement robs your lungs of air, and even though there are more important matters to focus on, you wonder how her muscles play under her black uniform swinging around a thing like that. Your admiration comes to a quick end when Jeralt and Byleth close the circle. Her hand rests on the hilt of a short blade as she scans the underbrush, her body rigid with battle anticipation.

“Let them come to us,” Jeralt announces. “Let them think they have the advantage.”

“Your knigths over there move slow through the woods,” you say, gesturing at the waiting man clad in heavy armour and armed with shields. “But their amour can resist some stray arrows coming down on us. It’s the rearguard that will take them by surprise from another direction and—”

“And charge their flank or rear to finish them off,” Jeralt ends with a crude nod. “Indirect approach. I thought of that as well.”

Your mouth goes dry. The idea plopped seemingly out of nowhere in your mind, but yes, now that you think about it, that _is_ the indirect approach tactic, first recorded after the Battle of Nicaea in … Faerghus? Or was it Adrestia? The picture in your mind is still blurry, but now you can make out definite lines of objects: Books with drawn pictures of pointing arrows and coloured lines, each lettered with a name or an approach in a neat handwriting that isn’t yours. The picture triggers another wave of dizziness, disappearing as fast as it appeared.

“They’re going to faint in three, two, one…” Claude’s voice rips you back to the present. You glare at him and raise a fist to show how close to fainting you really are. He only laughs at the tiny fist in front of his face.

“Enough brats, get into position,” Jeralt bellows, and the students scatter with a bouncing step in all their strides as they take the lead of a small unit.

You’re about to retreat to the furthest point away from battle when Jeralt blocks the way. “Not you. You’re going with Byleth.”

“I’m what?”

“Byleth,” Jeralt nods to the young woman ahead of you, “will be the commanding unit and you’ll help her.”

The world tilts a little as panic takes hold of you. “I can’t. I don’t know how to fight.”

“You seem to know enough to plan a counterattack.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Your voice sounds horribly piercing even to your own ears. “It was just a lucky guess.”

“I don’t know what’s the deal with you,” Jeralt says with a finality to his voice that doesn’t allow objection, and this time you clearly see the head of a mercenary guild, one that gives commands with every breath. “But that wasn’t a lucky guess. You see what it needs to win a battle. So you guide them.”

He turns around sharply and leaves, not bothering to check if you plan to abandon them. It’s madness. You _should_ abandon these people, should flee from the fight that will demand blood and death. One, two, three … six steps and you’re standing beside Byleth, taking deep breaths. It doesn’t help. She eyes you sideways with a raised brow, and you flinch at the metallic rasping sound as she draws her sword.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you mumble, staring into the woods. The red dots are approaching faster, forming into more recognisable features of humans. “I’m going to die. Without knowing who I am or why I’m here. This is the worst day of my life. I think. I don’t know. It has to be.”

Byleth hums beside you. You can’t tell if it’s a thoughtful or an affirmative hum. “This might sound crazy, but I do trust you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” you say, struck by a sudden fear that this all is a fever dream and you're about to lead them into ruin. It’s enough that you don’t even notice this is the first time you two are talking to each other since your meeting.

Byleth studies you out of the corner of her eyes, then says, “A very persistent voice inside me tells me I shouldn’t.”

“That’s your survival instinct. Listen to it.”

“Yeah,” Byleth says, and there’s something like a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. You blink and it's gone. “I might do that.”

You don’t really understand what’s there to smile about, but the moment quickly disappears as silence settles, only occasionally disturbed by a bird sitting in the trees above you.

“So what exactly do you see?” Byleth whispers after a moment, barely shifting in her crouching position. You on the other hand really want to move your legs before they go numb.

“I don’t know why you guys even believe me,” you mumble, and pinch the bridge of your nose with your fingers, trying to stave off another rush of dizziness. “And I don’t understand it myself. It’s the opponent, in a way. I see their strengths and weaknesses, their amour and weapons. It’s like … it’s like the flow of battle is displayed in front of me.”

Byleth hesitates a moment, then nods like everything is pretty much self-explanatory. You wonder if to her it really does sound plausible, as she is someone who is practically born in battle, a daughter to a mercenary who breathes battle and fighting. Before you can explain anything further, she ducks more into the bushes and silences you with a sharp hush, her body tensed. The first bandits approach the glade, their bows and arrows ready to strike as the Academy’s knights engage them. Swords and axes clash against each other, battle cries ring through the woods. Byleth gestures you to follow her, and out of the corner of your eyes you see the students do the same, moving around the bandits. From the distance, you notice Claude gesturing wildly. It’s a mix between pointing at himself and then at the space a couple of feet away from his unit, and though you’re unable to fully comprehend it, you shake your head. He gives a thumbs up and slows down until he halts inside the thick cover of ferns.

Just when you reach the right angle, Byleth looks back at you, waiting for your approval, and after briefly hesitating, you signal with a short nod to attack. Edelgard is the first to emerge from the underbrush. She has a dancer’s grace and a seemingly unerring instinct for what her opponent will do next. Her axe cuts through the first bandits who are too surprised to regroup in time. Dimitri and Claude are quickly to follow her. The crown prince of Faerghus wields his weapon of choice like he’s never done anything else in his entire life. The spear is the instrument to a deadly song they know by heart, and whoever stands in the way of their melody is cut down swiftly. Claude doesn’t disappoint with his steady aim either, his eyes sharper than an eagle’s. He nocks his bow, draws and impales a bandit that’s been running toward a mercenary with a crooked nose and eye patch. The mercenary gives him an offhand salute and goes back to fighting a thug twice his size.

And then there’s Byleth. At first you don’t see her as the battle’s chaos swallows her and she disappears between moving bodies. But once your eyes catch up to her again, it’s hard to look away. Byleth moves through the enemies’ lines like an avenging angel on a mission. Her sword arm causes havoc as it conducts the tact of death’s complicated choreography and one by one the bandits fall to her deadly dance. Strangely, what describes it the best, you think, is _divine._

The battle is almost over. The last bandits fall or flee back into the woods as they abandon their comrades who lay down their weapons and yield. A miserable sound of relief escapes you when you see the end nearing with little casualties on your side, thanking whoever watches over you and guides your weapons in victory.

That is until you see something, and at first you aren’t really sure you _see_ it. Veiled by a red haze, a gruesome scene unfolds before you: As Byleth is focused on helping a soldier back up on his feet, a bandit strikes her from behind, wedging a dagger through her spine and into her heart. When you blink, the scene is gone and with it the red veil covering your surroundings.

You don’t think twice. Jumping out of your hiding spot, you quickly recognise what will be Byleth’s murderer. Only he never gets the chance to approach her. With everything you’ve got, you charge into him and send him flying on the ground, you on top of him. The bandit groans, groggily turning on his back to see what struck him, and before you can start to fear for your own dear life, Byleth is beside you and rams her sword into his throat, silencing him forever.

She looks down at you and you feel like she _knows_ what just happened. Why you jumped in. It’s in those keen, piercing eyes that speak of a unimaginable wisdom. She reaches a hand out to help you up, and when you stand, the last bandits have been secured and the chaos finally settles. That is when the throbbing pain in your right eye doubles you ever, the pain akin to a pinprick of ice hammering into your skull. The pain makes you sick as stars explode behind your closed eyes, and the more they dance in feverish circles, the harder you press your hands against your eyelids, trying to smother the pain by pressure. It doesn’t work.

Unable to breathe properly, your stumble, and when you move your hands, your fingers smear something warm and wet across your cheeks.

Someone takes in a sharp breath. “Your eye,” Byleth breathes, a hand raised but remaining hanging in the air like she’s unsure if it’s okay to touch you. In the background you hear someone calling out you’re bleeding, and it takes a few seconds to understand _ where _you’re bleeding from. Your right eye cries blood when the pain finally knocks you out, darkness falling onto everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st chapter was supposed to be longer, but I think 15kish was a little too much, so the next part will come pretty quickly. I got a lot planned for this baby ;)


	2. The Herald of Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please call me out if I ever screw up and apply gender to reader, this is my first gender neutral babe and I want to do it right.
> 
> Also: Shout-out to my waifu who lets me play Fire Emblem Three Houses on her switch and nails every tea session with Dimitri, I love you so much /sobs
> 
> Thanks a bunch for all the positive feedback!!! First chapter and and we’ve already reached 100 Kudos. I cannot thank you ENOUGH

Chapter 02: The Herald of Dawn

_Hold me, O Night, with motherly affection,_   
_ While the wan earth wakes with a misty yawn._   
_ By my blood will be born the Dawn_   
_ and from my fleeting dream—the undying sun!_

[Gabriele D’Annunzio]

Hushed whispers wake you from the dark. The crackling of fire sweeps away the last remains of weary unconsciousness, and you blink at a tent's ceiling. Someone draped heavy blankets over you, and with every breath you exhale, puffy white clouds rise up. The shadows of a fire dance across the walls, their blurry movements flush another wave of dizziness over you, and as you sit up, you notice a tight feeling around your head. When you raise a hand to your forehead, there is a bandage sitting tightly wrapped around your head, covering your right eye. The pain has finally stopped, but it still feels dully raw, like an injury that hasn’t healed properly and serves now as a reminder of anguish.

The memories from the battle rush back to you, the sound of metal hitting metal and heavy bodies dropping to the ground echo in your mind. Death was nothing new to the soldiers and mercenaries, so how come you don’t feel particularly sorry for the fallen? You’re no soldier, at least that’s what every fibre of your body tells you, so normalising killing isn’t right. You rebuild your surety of that, one shaky brick at a time.

Once on your feet, you make your way outside, drawn in by the smell of cooked meat and quiet chatter. The sight of a small camp greets you: more tents build a row on this side of the camp, and in the centre, solders sit around a small fire, their voices barely audible. They lean over a steaming kettle, their weapons at their feet or beside tree trunks—laid down for the night but still within reach.

“Heey, you’re finally back with us!” Claude’s voice rings through the camp, and several heads turn in your direction. As he waves for you to join him, you duck your head and move quickly to his side, wishing you could just merge with the ground and disappear from everyone’s attention. “Little one, you got us worried there,” he says. On his knees, he’s balancing a steaming wooden bowl, and the sight and smell reminds you how hungry you are. Your stomach agrees by providing a low growl.

“How long have I been out?” You barely recognise your own voice, the sound rough from exhaustion. Claude hums in thought and gestures with one hand to a soldier to bring you food, while his other pats the ground beside him for you to sit down. “We managed to march a couple of hours after cleaning up the mess from the battle. Right now we’re near the edge of the forest. There should be only one more day of marching until we reach the monastery.”

“And you guys are sure they can help me up there?” you wonder, watching the first group of soldiers get ready for the night watch. They’re frighteningly young, jostling and bumping into each other, laughing and stamping their feet against the cold snap that still lingers, the last gasp of winter before spring begins in earnest.

“If not there, I’m not sure there’s anyone out there who can help you.”

You glare at Claude. “Surely you must be the voice of confidence in this merry bunch, right?”

He laughs. “I’m the closest you’ll get to an optimist around here.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Reassuring is my second name.”

“No, you said it’s von,” you mumble. Claude stares at you for a long minute, then bursts out laughing, the sound dark and rich. “No, that’s a noble prefix. You don’t even remember that?”

You open your mouth, and close it like a fish, feeling your cheeks raise in temperature. He shouldn’t make you feel guilty for forgetting something like that, and yet the shame settles in your bones and you want to smack your head against something to help your brain remember.

“Ah, but pardon my rudeness,” Claude purrs and gives you a mock bow. “I can tell you everything you want to know about nobility and how overrated it is. In fact, I might as well convince you to join the Alliance before Their Highnesses steal you to their side.”

“I’m not going to be on anyone’s side,” you mumble, and steal Claude’s blanket as payback, relishing in his offended expression. “It has nothing to do with me.”

Claude raises an eyebrow. “Ehh, I’m not so sure it’s that easy.”

“It is,” you insist, unable to hide the sulk from your voice. “Because I say so.”

Claude raises both eyebrows. “That’s not how it works.”

“Watch me.”

Something like a shadow flashes across his emerald eyes, but it disappears quickly enough for you to think it’s only the light from the campfire playing a trick on you. “We’ll see about that.” He scrapes the remaining contents from his bowl and lets out a satisfying yawn when he’s finished, stretching his long limbs like a cat getting comfortable. “Sooo,” he starts, unnecessarily dragging out the vowel and the sound of it locks up your shoulders into one tense muscle in preparation of what he’s going to say next. “Care to explain what happened back there?”

You take a deep breath. “You mean when it felt like my eye was going to fall out of its socket?”

“Actually I meant when you tripped over that one root after we found you.” He gives you a crooked grin. “But that’s interesting too, please go on.”

“I thought no one saw that,” you mumble, and avoid his gaze as you remember that stupid root that nearly broke your neck. Well, Claude surely knows a thing or two about tricking someone into talking about exactly what he wants to hear.

You thank the mercenary that brings you food, and notice it’s the one from the battle with the crooked nose. He gives you a just as crooked grin and limps back to his comrades. The stew warms your chilled bones, the rich flavour of meat and vegetables lifting your spirits and filling you with energy. As you eat, you drag out the minutes but Claude doesn’t even squirm as you let him wait, and starts whistling an off-key tune until _you _start to feel uncomfortable.

“Well, if I knew, I wouldn’t be afraid that it might happen again,” you admit begrudgingly. “Because that was scary.”

“Yeah, it didn’t really look like fun,” Claude agrees. “But what was it in the first place?”

“I don’t know.” You start to become weary of those words. “But it hurt.”

Claude gives you a sympathetic look, and goes silent, allowing you to eat, but you can’t shake off the feeling his mind is still trying to figure out what’s the deal with you. He can, for all you care. And once he’s done, he can write a report and hand it right to you so you’ll understand as well.

Out of the corner of your eye you notice someone moving towards you. Dimitri approaches you with caution like you’re a small animal he might scare off with hasty movements. But the look he gives Claude is that of a disappointed father, and he shakes his head once he’s standing in front of him. “Claude, we were supposed to not disturb our guest,” Dimitri says sternly, then bows his head in your direction. “Apologies. We should let you rest.”

“No, it’s okay,” you admit, and shuffle a little to the side to make room. “Please stay.”

Both boys exchange a quick look, but then Dimitri sits down, minding a polite distance unlike Claude who only needs to stretch his legs for his feet touch your knee.

“We were worried,” Dimitri starts. Just like Claude, he’s taken off most of his armour, and nothing about him stands out as a member of the royalty. He looks just like any other boy, and you’d never admit it out loud, but you already miss the blue tones on his uniform, the colour making his remarkably ice-blue eye stand out even more. “Luckily we could dispose of all bandits and return to a safe area. Byleth carried you here all by herself.”

“Yeah, remind me not get on her bad side, okay?” Claude laughs, but you think you hear a slight nervous tremble in his voice. “She looks like she can decapitate me with a butter knife.”

“She doesn’t look like it. She very certainly _will _behead you with a butter knife,” Dimitri provides with a pleasant smile as if he’s talking about the weather.

“See, and that’s why she fits best in the Alliance,” Claude says, winking at you. “We’re always full of surprises.”

Dimitri rolls his eyes and crosses his arms in front of his broad chest. “You might try it. I personally plan to convince her to join the Kingdom.”

“I think you’re both too late for that,” you say as you look to the other side of the camp where Byleth and Edelgard are currently engaged in a deep conversation, their heads leaning close to each other. Claude groans miserably, but quickly recovers as he turns to you, his eyes brightening up with excitement. “It’s okay, because once my disarming charm has wrapped you around my little finger, I’ll have an impressive tactician on my side.”

You almost choke on your next spoon of stew. “Tactician? I wouldn’t go that far.”

Beside you, Dimitri clears his throat. “Though I have to question Claude’s way of persuasion, I must admit he isn’t wrong about the latter. What you did back there was impressive.”

“I really didn’t do anything special,” you mumble at the same time Claude raises both hands leisurely and says, “Hey, it’s not my problem you _think_ you’re immune to it, Your Princeliness.”

Dimitri grumbles something in a foreign language under his breath. Grinning smugly, Claude turns to you, and nudges your side. “Have confidence, little one. They’ll teach you everything you need to know up there.” He points up towards a mountain where you’ll apparently be heading tomorrow. If you squint, you think you can make out lights in the horizon brightening the night sky.

“That monastery,” you say, trying to ignore how Claude’s body radiates heat. “What exactly is that place? I’ve never heard of a monastery that holds a school. I think,” you quickly add, unsure what thoughts provided by your hazy mind are facts.

“The Officers Academy is a facility where students learn the arts of warfare, magic, and leadership,” Dimitri explains. He’s very obviously trying not to look at Claude, which in return has Claude’s grin widening even more. “The lessons provide us with everything we need as upcoming heads of our families. Swordsmanship, sorcery, authority, the history of our continent. There is much to learn for everyone attending the classes.”

“So it’s a death factory,” you translate, the sudden bitter taste in your mouth overshadowing the taste of the stew. “How can they just teach that stuff like it’s normal?”

“You saw it yourself, didn’t you.” Claude stretches his long limbs and leans back until he props his body up on his elbows. “Bandits and thieves everywhere.”

“And most students come from a noble house,” Dimitri adds. “They need to be taught how to take command, and about the responsibilities coming with leadership.”

You blow a strand of hair away from your face, mood dropped now that you know where you’ll be from tomorrow on. “This doesn’t sound right.” Though you can’t really say how a school is supposed to be instead. This is a world with different rules, and you aren’t sure if it’ll be easy to accommodate to them.

While the boys bicker how good the plot of the tale mentioned earlier really is, you see Byleth approaching. A bruise is forming on her left cheek, and she holds her arm as if bearing the pain from a wound. But nothing of that is portrayed on her face, as if her brain hasn’t registered she’s wounded yet and hence doesn’t need to express it.

“How are you?” she asks, sending the boys a quick look. Dimitri and Claude climb to their feet and wish their good nights with a quick bow. They hurry to Edelgard and gang up on heir, probably interrogating her about the conversation she's had with Byleth.

“I’m better,” you say, a little surprised you actually mean it. You feel refreshed and nourished, ready for another day of walking. Byleth sits down and watches the camp for a moment in silence. The chaos from before has settled into a quiet hum. Men and women sit together in little circles and tell their glorious battle stories with boisterous laughter, selling the illusion of a victorious life. But that might easily end the next day because of a hasty recklessness. No one thinks of that. Everyone is just celebrating, reaching for flasks and living in the moment. It’s a beautiful sight.

As the buzzing sound of people chatting subsides and the first turn in for the night, Byleth turns towards you, her voice lowered. “What you did back there,” she starts, and for whatever reason remains silent as if she decided talking about it isn’t a good idea. Shadows from the weakened fire dance across her face, and again you’re flooded with the unfathomable feeling of familiarity. It’s in the sharp lines of her face, the way her eyes move and settle on something as she observes her surroundings. It’s almost a painful sense of nostalgia. Something about this woman just brings you an unusual amount of ease, like it doesn’t really matter who you are, and rather that you’re_ here_ that makes the difference.

Before you can stop your brain, you’re already asking, “Do we know each other by chance?”

Byleth looks at you for a long minute, then slowly shakes her head, and you try not to show your disappointment too much. “I’ve travelled a lot with my father,” she says. “We’ve come through many lands and villages. You may have seen me at some point, but we’ve never exchanged a word until yesterday.”

You nod at the plausible explanation, but the feeling that this isn’t the right answer curls like a hook into your heart. “And your father hasn’t said anything about me as well?”

“No.” Byleth’s eyes follow your hands as they set down the empty bowl. Seeing that you’ve finished everything, she nods in approval. “And he doesn’t forget a face.”

“How do you all just … trust me,” you wonder, looking to where Jeralt is miserably leaning against a tree trunk as Alois keeps talking and talking. He looks like he wishes someone would take him down with an arrow.

“He doesn’t,” Byleth says. “And he calls me a little whippersnapper for that. He hasn’t called me that in the five years.” At the sound of the smile in her voice you snap your head in Byleth’s direction, but when you look, she wears the same bland expression like before.

“But you do,” you start carefully, not trusting your ears again, so you settle on staring at her until she gives another emotion. “Care to explain why?”

“For now, you haven’t given me any reason not to,” she states as if it really were that simple. It couldn’t be. Up until now Byleth has been your only anchor that your meeting wasn’t purely coincidental—that the reason shrouding your memories would dissipate like the night once dawn breaks if you just stick to her side, and everything will be revealed in time. But now without anything to hold on to, you feel like you’re slipping deeper and deeper into an abyss from which you can’t ascend. This feeling is terror fizzing in your blood like poison, and you shudder at the thought that you’ll forever remain adrift.

“Your powers,” Byleth continues, unaware of your mental breakdown right next to her. “They’re unusual, and if you learn to use them right, very dangerous.” Spoken by everyone else, this might sound like a threat, but Byleth says it like a simple statement, a fact, unaware how much she tilts your world with it. “What do you plan to do with them?”

You don’t have to think long about it. “I won’t do anything. Whatever it was, it’s over,” you say and gesture at your bandaged eye. It’s true. Since you woke up, your eye has remained calm, no red veil or eery proclamation someone might step into the campfire and burn alive. The pounding has stopped, and the normalcy of it is like a soothing balm.

Byleth studies you. You really wish she could give you more than her vacant expression. “You don’t know yet … your eye.” She takes your spoon and with the end of it, she draws a symbol on the ground. “Do you know what that is?”

You look at it, but nothing comes to your mind. It’s just a four pointed star with two lines crossing the right and left tips. “No, I’ve never seen it.”

Byleth holds your gaze as if she hopes to find a lie written between your eyes, and this time you don’t look away until she relents with a barely audible sigh.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because before you passed out, it appeared here.” She taps a finger against her closed, right eye, then points at you. Your body goes rigid. Immediately, your hands fly up to tear off the bandage, but Byleth catches your wrists and holds them down. “Not yet.”

“I want to see it.” Your breath catches in your lungs. It sounds like you need air because you’re drowning. “I want it off. Take it off!”

“I can’t show you, there are no mirrors,” Byleth says quietly, and throws a quick glance around the camp to see if your panic has alarmed anyone. You want to point out that you could use the reflection of her sword, but maybe Byleth has considered the same and thought it a bad idea, because she doesn’t know what else you might do with a weapon in your current state. Seeing that fighting against the vice grip she has on your hands is futile, you slump down, your arms falling slack back to your side. “Just what… what is happening. What is that?”

“Edelgard said it might be a Crest, but none she or the others have seen before,” Byleth explains. “They told me there is a teacher at the monastery who studies Crests.” She gives your arms a barely noticeable squeeze before she lets go. “So it’s going to be okay.”

“How can you say that?” you nearly sob, and wish you could hold onto her longer as she stands up and brushes dirt off her uniform. “How can you be so sure?”

“I’m not,” Byleth says, giving you one last look. You want to tell yourself it’s something like worry you see in her eyes, but her expression remains blank, like a board that’s been wiped clean. “I can only hope.”

* * *

The next morning, Jeralt and Alois set an unforgiving pace, determined to reach the monastery shortly after dawn broke. While everyone else couldn’t wait to reach their home as fast as possible, you feel worry grow with every step up the hill towards the walls and towers. The monastery looms like a stronghold, a building so tall and intimidating, built to make people feel small.

You were allowed to take off the bandage, and there was nothing worse than knowing something was on your eye but you couldn’t see it. Unlike everyone else. They kept staring at you, mumbling to each other in quiet whispers, and more than once you considered telling them that just because your eye was different it didn’t mean you were blind. It was reason enough for you to put the bandage back on and stay away from the soldiers and mercenaries, leaving them to their superstitious rumours. Who could have thought that you’d grab someone else’s attention entirely with that revelation.

Even before the first sunbeams broke through the budding branches, the wind carrying the smell of spring and new life, Edelgard stuck to you like a tick. It wasn’t hard to find out she was more interested in your Crest than you as a person, and every question you couldn’t answer fuelled her irritation. Still she was nothing but determined to squeeze the tiniest information out of you, and even though you tried to avoid her by either marching way too fast or way too slow, Edelgard didn’t relent and remained by your side. Fear is a little exaggerated to describe what you feel towards her, but it's close. Whenever her sharp eyes focus on you, unease takes hold of your brain and the words leave your mouth as nervous stammers. It certainly doesn’t help that you know she can easily hack off a grown man’s arm without so much as blinking. Or that the corners of her mouth curl up into the sweetest, rare smile.

Once you’re on the trade road up to the monastery, pebble makes way to smooth cobblestone. Giant iron doors stand wide open, and as your group enters, a merchant’s cart rolls past you and greets the returning knights. After the first entrance point, the second waits in the form of a portcullis and more knights standing on guard. Past the second ring of walls, you enter a small forecourt. On both sides are stalls and booths with merchants screaming their prices and the sound of metal hammered into the right shape at the blacksmith’s. At the foot of wide stairs leading up into the first building, a man dressed in dark blue robes awaits you, his strong arms crossed behind his back.

“Welcome back,” he greets Alois and the students. “Your messenger bird has reached us yesterday late into the evening, and preparations have been made.” To Jeralt, he says, “My name is Seteth. I am an adviser to the archbishop. Lady Rhea awaits you.” Jeralt nods but he looks a lot more cautious since you’ve entered the monastery grounds. At the mention of that name, his posture visibly tenses, but he gestures to Byleth and you to follow him nonetheless.

“We shall return to our respectable classes for now and make known we are unscathed,” Dimitri says. “Please, Byleth, and you too, if things have calmed down, meet the other students as well, won’t you?”

“Ohh, good idea. You have to go around and introduce yourself as our great saviours.” Claude winks at you with both thumbs up. Edelgard slaps his hands back down.

“We’ll be standing here until evening if we don’t get going," she says. "Please give Lady Rhea our regards. We’ll report to her once everything is sorted out about you.” She eyes you sideways, then ushers the boys down another hall like a mother hen. You exchange a quick look with Byleth who already looks very exasperated with the student’s antics.

Seteth leads you into the Audience Chamber, a rectangular room with statues decorating the walls, and asks for you to wait. The moment he leaves the room, you turn towards Jeralt and Byleth and ask, “Who is this Lady Rhea?”

“I’m aware Byleth doesn’t know much about her, I haven’t taught her he teachings of Seiros, but you—” He stops mid sentence seeing the way you look at him, and clears his throat. “Lady Rhea is the archbishop of the Church of Seiros. She’s commanding the knights and sees that the people don’t do anything stupid in the name of Seiros.”

“Seiros?” you ask, turning the name in your head. Nope, nothing.

“You know, the one who defeated the King of Liberation and founded the Church of Seiros?” When you just shrug, Jeralt scratches his beard and hums in thought. “Well, I sure won’t be the one preaching what you should know or not. But maybe don’t make it all too obvious you aren’t a follower.”

_Or what_, you want to ask, but Seteth returns and he isn’t alone. The woman walking ahead of him looks like she belongs on the portrait of a saint. It isn’t much that she walks towards you, but rather _strides_ in grateful steps to the middle of the room, her chin raised high and shoulders squared. And yet when she looks at your little assembly, her eyes are soft and kind, her expression open and friendly.

“I welcome you into these sacred halls,” she says, her voice like soothing velvet on your skin. “Alois informed me of what happened, and I thank every one of you for saving the students.” Lady Rhea smiles at you all separately. Her eyes linger on you, and she titles her head slightly. “I've also heard about the wondrous things that happened to you. Please, be so kind and remove the bandage. Let me take a look at this Crest.”

You hesitate, your fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. But Rhea waits patiently and raises a delicate hand when her advisor Seteth flinches to repeat her request. Slowly, you take the bandage off, barely able to imagine how the symbol or Crest as they call it looks upon your eye. When you meet Rhea's gaze again, her smile freezes, and her eyes widen in surprise. Her lips part slightly, then stretch into an ecstatic smile. Beside her, Seteth inhales sharply. “This is impossible,” he breathes, growing pale. You start to panic.

“Why, what's wrong with me? What is impossible?”

“Nothing, nothing is wrong,” Rhea quickly reassures you, but it's hard to believe when Seteth looks like he's seen a ghost. “A fortunate day indeed. Not only does one of the strongest knights to have ever walked these halls return, but it also seems that a new chapter of history dawns upon us.”

All eyes land on her, one more puzzled than the other. Even Seteth doesn’t look like he fully comprehends what’s happening. “Lady Rhea?” he asks cautiously at the same time as Jeralt demands, “What are you talking about?”

The archbishop ignores them both, and the longer she gives you that pleasant smile, the more unsettled you feel. “When Alois wrote about a Crest appearing on your body, I was not sure what to think of it. But now, I cannot hide my joy at the return of a Crest that we thought was lost to history.”

“I—I don’t know why I have it,” you quickly say, feeling you have to defend yourself before they accuse you of stealing it. Can Crests be stolen in the first place? “I don’t _remember_ why I have it.”

Lady Rhea nods, her solemn expression making way to worry. “Of that Alois informed me as well. You may stay here until your memories return. Allow me for now to tell you about the Crest. Maybe that will dissipate some of the darkness shrouding your mind.”

You nod, and brace yourself for whatever she’ll reveal. It certainly helps that Byleth stands close to you, her mere presence a standing stone you can hold onto for now without drifting away.

“It is a Crest most uncommon,” Lady Rhea explains, her hands gracefully crossed in front of her. “For there was only one person who bore it. This Crest belonged to the very one who served our Lady Seiros against the evil powers that threatened Fódlan thousands of years ago. He was known as Seiros’ Champion. The Herald of Dawn.”

She allows those words to sink into you, and how deep they sink. Now that they’re out here, you feel like they pull you down, deeper down into a dark sea from which you can’t surface. The only result is drowning.

“Herald of … you don’t think. You _can’t_ think—” Your thoughts move way too fast, you can’t grasp any to sort them.

“What I think means nothing in light of what has transpired and therefore is reality. You are chosen by the Goddess herself to bring hope to the people of Fódlan. You are the Herald of Dawn.”

You feel sick. It may be phantom pain, but you could swear your right eye starts hurting again, as if the Crest is reacting to the revelation, the call of its true nature. You dig your trembling fingers into the fabric of your jacket, considering for the tiniest second to gouge your eye out. Can’t be anyone’s champion or Herald without the Crest, right? “So, you’re saying … am I the one from back then? This Champion?” If you were really the same person, how were you still alive after a thousands of years? The prospect of finally having an identity is great, but you aren’t sure you’re ready to pay the price that comes with it. And this one seems to carry a very heavy price.

“That seems quite impossible.” This time Seteth speaks up. He looks just as unnerved by this revelation as you feel. “The Herald appeared when Saint Seiros was in dire need, and once his duty was fulfilled, he vanished. ”

“But now, another Herald has come, and with you the promise of suffering and hardships,” Rhea explains, her expression now strict and foreboding. “The task of giving hope is the most difficult to ask of a person. But that is the path the Goddess has chosen for you.”

“No, no, you’re wrong. I’m no Herald … and certainly no Champion of anyone. I can’t give people hope, I don’t even know _what _to give them hope for!” Your voice borders on hysteric, but you’ve never been more determined to plead your case. “I’m not the right person. I’m really _not_.”

“Then how come you bear the Crest of Seiros’ Champion, my child?” Lady Rhea asks, and you notice the tiny shift in her voice. The kindness grows thiner and thiner, and in its place austerity and even coldness settle—the voice of authority and undeniable command. “It is Our Goddess’ will. The Church of Seiros needs you. The people of Fódlan need you. You cannot turn away from your Fate.”

You want to argue that yes, you can; you’ll turn around and leave this place filled with crazy people and their fanatic beliefs. One look from Byleth stops your thoughts. Lady Rhea interprets this silence as compliance, and nods, visibly pleased. “We have waited for this opportunity for so long,” she continues, now smiling again. “There shall be festivities today. As a welcome to our Herald, and the return of Blade Breaker Jeralt. For you, his daughter, we have also thought of a task that will greatly help Garreg Mach.”

Jeralt grunts, clearly unhappy, but Byleth only cocks her head to one side. You’re astonished that after everything, she’s still awfully calm and collected.

“A teaching position has become free as of yesterday,” Lady Rhea explains to Byleth. “By Alois' recommendation, you are to take that position and teach one of the Houses here at the Officers Academy. Your colleagues will provide you with further information. As for you,” and you flinch when she turns to you, afraid what else she has in store, “you too shall teach the students the course of leadership and command. Seiros’ Champion was a great tactician. He honed Saint Macuil’s abilities. I would not be surprised if you too show an unparallelled gift for strategy.”

“Well,” you start, but the hesitation is clear, and Lady Rhea smiles like she knows what you can do once the Crest is activated. “Whereas you are to choose one house,” she tells Byleth, “the Herald will hold seminars. As a servant of the Church, you cannot call in favourites.”

“I don’t even know what to teach,” you mumble weakly. “_How_ to teach.”

“Me neither,” Byleth says, the first time she’s spoken since entering the Audience Chamber. The amusement glinting in Lady Rhea’s eyes is like the sun reflected on a purling river. “Do not worry,” she says. “You will learn in time. And we are here to help you as well.”

On your lips lie the words that they certainly didn’t help you. You came here so they could help to search for a way to return your memory.

Instead, they made everything worse.

The ceremonial robes hang heavy over your shoulders. The feast hasn’t started yet, but you’re already sweating and panting with the weight of the golden embroidery and the head piece decorating your forehead. When Seteth brought everything in a couple of hours ago, he was grumbling something unintelligible under his breath, at his side a little girl who, unlike him, was happy to meet you and to see that you’d take on the role as the Herald. You wanted to tell Flayn there was a difference between _want _ and _have to_, but she was already focused on helping you dress and prepare for the festivities. Servants handled the remaining tasks of making you presentable, and now you’re standing in front of a giant mirror, observing yourself.

It was scary how things changed so fast. Not even 24 hours ago, you were a nobody, a nameless figure roaming the woods, and now there is a name that isn’t your own—no, not a name. A title. A title that will all but replace your name. History won’t remember you as a person, they will remember the deeds that you’ve done, the mistakes that you’ll commit. Lady Rhea spoke of honour like it’s a crown on your head, but you see the noose that it really is around your throat. The head piece feels too heavy, and the golden necklace sitting on your neck reminds you more of a dog collar.

There’s a knock on your door. Seteth said that someone would get you before everything starts, and you don’t even try to hide the relieved sob when Byleth enters the room. She examines you from head to toes, and leans her head to the side, one finger on her chin. “You look … different,” she says.

“You mean ridiculous.” You move your arms, demonstrating how the wide sleeves flap uselessly at your side. “I wish we could do this all without me looking like a sack of potatoes.”

“I had to think of cabbages, but you aren’t wrong either.” She crosses the room and looks outside the window. You can already hear the masses as they enter the Cathedral, and it does nothing to calm your haywire nerves. Byleth seems to notice as much. She turns to you, and asks, “How are you holding up?”

“Do you want the real answer or the one I prepared for Lady Rhea?”

Byleth raises a brow.

“Not good. I’m just … how could this happen?” You throw up your hands in frustration, and the robes give a dangerous tearing sound. Your arms fall immediately down, the thought of damaging a hundreds of years old ceremonial robe the last thing you need today. “Of all the things, how could I suddenly become some figure of the Church.”

“Is it so hard to believe that the Goddess of Fódlan has lead you to this path?” Byleth crosses her ams and leans against the wall next to the window, eyeing you curiously.

“I don’t even _believe_ in this Goddess,” you groan, flopping on your bed. The chambers chosen for you overlook the bridge leading to the Cathedral where people swarm inside like little ants returning to their anthill. It was a small room equipped with all necessities for comfort but no additional expenses on luxury. A bed, a dresser, a simple table and chair, a mirror, and a shelf take up all the space. Not that you could have brought anything with you.

You look up at Byleth and dread the next question. “Do _you_ believe in it?” you ask. “That I’m someone chosen?”

“Hmm.” Byleth casts one last glance outside, then pushes off the wall, gesturing you to follow her. You sigh, and mentally prepare yourself for what will happen in the Cathedral. Before you leave the room, Byleth rests her hand on the door handle and looks back at you over her shoulder. “I don’t know. Where I’m from, belief doesn’t save you from the sword of a thief. Only deeds and actions. It’s the reason my father and I are still alive.” She considers you for a moment, and when you blink you imagine you see the tiniest smile on her face. “What you did yesterday was very much real to me. Maybe a Goddess guided you, maybe it was just lucky instinct. But you saved my life, and that certainly is something I can rely on.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, and swings the door open. You quickly follow, your steps feeling a lot lighter than before. “I guess I’m just frustrated,” you admit, carefully paying attention your voice isn’t too loud. “That they think there’s someone who can just decide how my life is going to be. Like this herald business suddenly defies who I am.”

“As long as you don’t forget who you are, does it matter?” Byleth wonders aloud, turning down another corridor that ends in stairs leading down. “As long as there is just one person who doesn’t forget, does it _really_ matter?”

Maybe not to her, but for some inexplicable reason, it means a great deal to you. So you answer with a grumble, and Byleth hums like she knows she’s right. To change the subject, you ask, “What about you? How can you just follow along with being a teacher here?”

“Truth be told, I’m not happy,” Byleth says, nodding to the knights standing on guard in the first floor that leads outside. “But at the same time I can see Lady Rhea’s reasoning. Those students need someone who teaches them not to be stupid on the real battlefield. Especially when they are to be future rulers of Fódlan. If I’m the one shaping those little whippersnappers, I can rest at ease.”

You follow her down the hallways, staying silent until, “Whippersnapper is such a weird word,” you say.

Byleth gives a huff of air that barely passes as a chuckle. “It is.”

Together you leave the living quarters and enter the Cathedral at the backside where everything is closed off for the rest of the people. Lady Rhea and Seteth are already waiting for you, both dressed in equally complicated robes as you.

“Thank you, Professor.” Lady Rhea nods towards Byleth, who nods back and joins the other teachers. “And now, Herald, it is time to meet the sheep you shall shepherd from today on. Please, follow me.”

She doesn’t give you time to prepare for the crowd waiting for you, and glancing at Seteth for help doesn’t do anything either as he just crudely nods towards Lady Rhea, telling you to go along. You square your shoulders and hope for the best.

The Cathedral has been decorated with candles and tapestry showing the banner of the Church of Seiros and above it the Crest of the Herald. A platform has been built for your entrance, and stepping on it, your gaze roams over all the assembled students, clergy, and knights. Seeing them, you feel terror seize your body, locking up all muscles. The masses look at you with hunger in their eyes, ready to devour you like you’re the last piece of bread on the table. “_Herald, Herald!_ ” they cry, and each time they open their mouths, the noose tightens around your neck. _Saint_ and _Martyr_ vaguely dance at the edges of your mind, beyond your grasp, mocking how you know them but don’t understand their very being. This is bigger than you. This is far bigger than you can manage, and you want to run away and hide from their greedy eyes.

Scanning the crowd, you notice the house leaders in the far back. Edelgard looks unpleased, her mouth set into a grim line, while Dimitri claps politely with the rest, and Claude raises a golden cup in mocking salute. You really want to break down and cry. The only solid point is Byleth, has always been Byleth up until now, at the other end of the room, holding your gaze steadfast like a pillow of strength in troubled waters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, here we go, shit starts to hit the fan. You don't wanna be the Herald? Guess what. No one cares. (Except maybe Byleth cause she's the best).  
Hit me up with your conspiracy theories about reader/what you think will happen/who you think is gonna be endgame pairing for reader. I love seeing y'all go crazy.
> 
> Also Claude flirts with everyone and everything, try to change my mind.


	3. Ties That Bind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late delay, lotsa stuff happened like moving places, beginning of fall term, FINISHING THE BLUE ROUTE adlhsldsahd dimitri /sobs  
It was really nice tho I was kinda shocked how much was missing that happened in the Golden Route. 
> 
> Also I watched like 2 cutscenes with male Byleth and I’m such a slut for him. If I can’t work him into this plot somehow without it feeling overloaded and him appearing out of thin air and without context, expect a Twin AU once this is done.
> 
> Litte heads-up, nothing really happens in this chapter, just some bonding, stuff will pick up in the next two chapters.
> 
> ALSO THANKS SO MUCH FOR THE OVERALL POSITIVE FEEDBACK, I AM SHOOKETH

Chapter 03: Ties that Bind

_Where war, and joy, and terror  
_ _Have all at times held away;  
_ _Where both delight and horror  
_ _Have had their fitful day._

_The happiest under heaven  
_ _A king of powerful mind;  
_ _A company so proven  
_ _Would now be hard to find_

_Gawain put on a good cheer.  
_‘_Why should I hesitate?’_  
_He said. ‘Kind or severe,  
__We must engage our Fate.’_

[Sir Gawain and the Green Knight]

„Breathe,“ Hanneman says for the third time. At every tap of his pen against the table, you flinch as if someone is knocking right against the inside of your skull. “You have to feel the Crest, become one with it. Don’t think of it as an addition; see it as an extension of your very self.”

You exhale but it’s hard to focus after you’ve been sitting in the same position for nearly two hours and your legs keep falling asleep.

“Focus on it,” Hanneman continues. He starts to gesture with his free hand, an indicator that he’s just as frustrated with your lack of progress as you are. “Focus on the feeling that took hold of you when you fought the bandits. Imagine what you want. _Ask_ yourself what it is you really want, and take hold of that picture.”

Well, first of all, you really want a sandwich.

For the past few weeks, you’ve been waking up before sunrise to attend private lessons with Hanneman to get a hold of your Crest’s power. Now the end of the month approaches, and still your body refuses to get accustomed to work at such an early hour, and more importantly without eating first. An hour ago, your stomach started growling, but Professor Hanneman has proved again and again to be very successful in ignoring factors that disturb his lessons. You continue breathing through what you consider hunger pains instead of the raise of new powers, but with the sound of screaming students outside and the occasional flapping of wings as Pegasus Knights fly by on their patrol, it’s anything but successful.

“Focus!” Hanneman chides again as if he can read your mind and knows exactly you’re thinking of the pheasant roast with berry sauce on the menu today.

“I’m trying,” you groan and slump into the chair, defeated. “But I don’t _feel_ anything.”

“Hmm hmmm,” Hanneman hums and looks at you like you were supposed to understand what he’s conveying with that sound. “Maybe we’re looking at it the wrong way,” he says once you don’t follow up on his inexplicable sound. “Maybe we should stop thinking of it as a common Crest, but approach it like it is something entirely different.” He quickly notes something on his paper, then proceeds to flip through the open books he’s splayed out on his desk. “There is so little we know about the Crest of the Herald. I am much frustrated no one thought of studying it a thousand years ago!”

“I don’t understand. How can it be different?” Your first lesson solely focused on Crests. How they are thought to be power incarnate, bestowed upon humans by the Goddess countless ages ago. Today those who are descendants of Fódlan’s Ten Elites and Four Saints, who fought during the War of Heroes beside Saint Seiros, wear Crests, a sign of wealth and nobility.

“Well, one possible explanation could be that for whatever reason, the first Herald was different from his fellow warriors, the Ten Elites,” Hanneman offers, leaning back into his chair and looking a lot more interested in the conversation now. “The Goddess must have found him worthy of her power just as she found Saint Seiros worthy.”

“Then why wasn’t he a Saint?” you wonder. From your understanding, the Four Saints were special comrades of Saint Seiros, just as guided by the Goddess as their leader. What had made the Herald from back then different? “According to everything you told me, he sounds a lot like this Macuil person. Focusing on strategy and all that.”

“_Saint_ Macuil,” Hanneman corrects you, but there’s no bite in his voice. “And yes, perhaps he was akin to the Saints, but that clearly wasn’t what determined the final decision to name him Herald.”

“Well, that’s just my kind of luck,” you mumble, but when Hanneman makes a puzzled sound, you ask instead, “And you’re sure I’m a descendant of him?”

“Most likely! You bear a Major Crest, which means the Herald’s blood runs strong in your body. After he disappeared, he might have settled down and started a family. Unfortunately, nothing is recorded about him after the War of Heroes concluded.”

“Then how come there was no one else in a thousand years who bore the same Crest?” You aren’t sure you fully understand how they work. Apparently, Crests grant special powers to those who hold them such as high aptitude for magic or enhanced strength. But you know better than anyone that the Crest of the Herald is special. It doesn’t simply give you a boon, it allows you to command the flow of battle. But is it really a blessing bestowed by the Goddess? You don’t remember a divine revelation or talking to a Goddess. Or did that maybe occur even before you were found by the Officers Academy’s students? Before your memory loss? You certainly don’t _feel _chosen by a deity.

“Trying to explain the Goddess’ whims would wield about the same result as asking this question,” Hanneman says. “Sometimes a Crest may skip generations. No one can say with certainty who will be chosen. If it will be the first or third born. That is why we must further study Crests! For example, why, unlike other Crests, has your appeared physically visible?” Hanneman mutters more questions under his breath and notes them quickly on his paper. It’s remarkable how enthusiastic he approaches the topic if it only didn’t make you feel like an experiment lying on a dissection table.

“I want to know so much more about the first Herald,” you mumble. “What was his name? Where was he from?” Why did he disappear and what were the costs he had paid for such a title. Only one month in and Lady Rhea already granted you an impressive room to reside. People treat you with respect and admiration even though you aren’t doing much besides wave at them on the streets or hold some conversations. If being the Herald only encompasses these tasks, you’ll gladly take on the role and speak to people. But that would be a dream too good to be true.

“We can only speculate,” Hanneman says. “Some believe the Herald came when Seiros needed him most. Our Goddess’ answer to her cry of help. Others believe he was simply a general who originated form a farmer’s family. Other, smaller sources talk about a prince from a far off land who passed through Fódlan and decided to stay. But in all cases, the Herald was a great asset to win the War of Heroes and save Fódlan from the tyranny of the Fell King.”

“Yeah, no pressure there,” you mumble, sinking further into your seat. Hopefully no one expects you to save Fódlan from evil monarchs. If yes, it certainly won’t happen on an empty stomach. When Hanneman releases you, there’s only one place for you to be. The Dining Hall is crowded at this time of hour. Students and faculty bustle everywhere, eager to get their favourite meal on a plate. Just like them, you are drawn in by the amazing smell of roasted meet and freshly baked pastries.

The only thing you can live without is how once you enter the room several heads turn in your direction, and a ripple of “Look, it’s the Herald” goes through the crowd, spreading like a wave. _Or a disease_, you think with a sour taste in your mouth as you move through the parting sea. They want you to acknowledge them but Goddess forbid you actually engage in conversation with them and they flee like you’re the Herald of Pest.

“Herald!” Well, not everyone escapes. Some seem to like living dangerous.

Edelgard looks straight at you from between the other students from the Eagle class sitting at a table, removing any doubt she means anyone else but you. Running from her would be a sign of defeat, so you drag yourself over to the Eagle table and give the round an uncertain smile. “Hello.”

“Herald, if you have time, please sit with us,” Edelgard offers but the look she pins on you doesn't give you any choice. The silence of her classmates speaks louder than words, and a quick glance to Hubert tells you that he very much would like for you to _not_ sit with them.

“Sure,” you say lamely and sit opposite from her where Bernadetta quickly shuffles to the side to make room, and then further down the bench until she jumps to her feet and flees from the hall. It’s a miracle she’s out of her chambers in the first place, undoubtedly Byleth’s work.

“Did you manage any progress with Professor Hanneman?” Edelgard asks, carefully cutting her pheasant roast into small bite-sized pieces. She looks the complete opposite from someone capable of hacking away their enemies but you wouldn’t dare to underestimate her.

“It’s slow,” you admit, solely focusing on shoving potatoes from one side of your plate to the other so you don’t have to look at anyone. “I’ve only grasped the basics of how Crests work and the Herald’s is so different.”

“Research might prove more fruitful if you’d be called into action,” she says, and it’s difficult to determine if that statement is a simple observation or underlying critique towards Rhea’s decision to leave you out of the major education system. At least that’s something you’re sure of. Edelgard is difficult.

“Maybe. But chances are higher I get myself killed somehow on the battlefield.” You’re already dreading the approaching noon hours. Byleth has worked out a special training programme for you and the house leaders. So far there hasn’t been a day without aching muscles and bruises for you. Thinking of Byleth, you can’t help but ask, “So how’s Byleth as a Professor?”

Edelgard considers her plate with mild interest, but her index fingers start tapping against her cutlery. She has small, delicate hands. Cute hands. You gawk at them for two seconds before noticing Hubert starring daggers at you, and quickly avert your eyes to your cup of ginger tea like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Our professor shows knowledge in the most curious things,” he says, surprising you by joining the conversation. “I think the Adrestian Empire will benefit greatly from that.”

You aren’t sure how leading the class correlates directly to joining the Empire, but you don’t want to point that out. Hubert is still too much of a puzzle you’re adamant on not piecing together because whatever picture waits for you after the assembly might be one of horror.

“She really is one to look up to,” Edelgard agrees, but she isn’t looking at anyone, so it seems she’s saying it more to herself. You want to try and read more out of her expression, but distraction comes quickly in form of more students from the Eagle class. Caspar is the first bouncing excitedly towards the table, and still he somehow miraculously manages to keep his food from flying everywhere. “Herald!” he calls and slides right on the seat right next to you. “How’s the head situation going?”

“Caspar,” Linhardt chides and gives his friend the disappointed look of a parent that can’t bring his child to use a fork to eat. “Would you stop pestering the Herald with the same question every day?”

Linhardt hits the mark. It was nice in the beginning to have someone show so much interest in your wellbeing, but now you don’t know if the daily reminder how you fail to regain pieces of your past is rude or just Caspar’s naive politeness.

“Yeah well.” You try to stuff as much potatoes in your mouth as possible just to avoid talking about it. “_Nothin’ yeff_.”

“Herald, please try to keep your manners in check, will you?” Ferdinand comments because of course he catches you with your mouth full and sauce dripping from the corners. Unlucky for him, you don’t really care.

“Well, sorry.” Caspar frowns and scratches the remains from his plate. The two minutes you needed to finish your potatoes, he’s cleared his whole plate. “I just thought it might help.”

“Help to be reminded what’s missing?” Linhardt doesn’t look convinced. “I think the Herald knows so better than anyone.”

“Guys, drop the subject,” Edelgard intervenes. “Let us finish our meals now. Classes resume presently and I don’t want to hear any stomachs growling, understood?” The last part goes with a pointed look towards Linhardt, who answers with a lazy shrug while continuing to poke at his food, looking bored out of his mind. It lasts about three seconds before he brightens up and turns towards you while rummaging through his school bag. From that, he pulls out notes and a pen, and unceremoniously shoves them into your hands. “I have a question, Herald. Would you be so kind and look over these strategic proposals I’ve developed from the last lesson? I understand what you taught us were basics as we find them in the library. I simply took the time and applied those to the strengths and abilities of my classmates.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You did?” Up until now, you didn’t know Linhardt was paying attention whenever you gave the students your sorry excuses of lessons. You feel like you’ve seen him asleep far more than actually looking at the board or writing, so him presenting his notes to you now is more than a surprise. He has a clean handwriting, small letters that curl into themselves and forget to take a break between words. You squint at the sentences, trying to make them out. It sure doesn’t help that half of it is crossed out by what looks like a strategy sketch with little circles and everyone’s names filling out the space.

“This looks … elaborate,” you comment, unsure if you’ll ever be able to solve this enigma.

“No worries.” Linhardt gives a little smile. “Please give me your answer report until tomorrow. And feel free to correct me on anything I’ve done wrong.”

He’s probably done a much better job than you on your lesson notes, but you nod with a lopsided smile. “I will.”

“Oh, and while we’re at strategy talk,” Caspar jumps right in, “any good ideas how to take on a taller opponent?”

“A good kick to their shins?” you suggest.

“A dagger to their liver?” Edelgard says.

“Poison in their cup?” Hubert offers.

“You’re all animals,” Ferdinand says.

Linhardt groans. “I _told_ you how to win in a fight like that, Caspar. Why won’t you listen to me?”

You don’t want to be part of the argument breaking out between them, so you turn away and try to see what the other students are doing in the dining hall. At the opposite end, Claude catches your eyes and waves like he’s been waiting way too long to finally get your attention. He points at Edelgard and flaps his arms like a chicken. He points at you and spreads his hands behind his head, forming antlers with his fingers. When Edelgard follows your eyes, his head whips around and he pretends to agree with whatever Lysithea just said.

“I hope you forgive Caspar’s enquiries,” she says, steering your focus back to her. She’s gently tapping the corners of her mouth with an embroidered napkin, and oh there they are again, her delicate fingers. You look away before Hubert catches you staring again and decides to put poison in _your_ cup7. “I speak on behalf of everyone in the Black Eagle House when I say we wish for your full recovery to be soon.”

“If wishing would only get the job done, I might have something to work with by now.”

Edelgard doesn’t blink, her expression frozen. “Meaning?”

“I thought I'd come here and one of the Church's healers would just wave their hands to return my memories,” you mumble, scribbling a tiny Claude with little, evil horns on his head in the corner of Linhardt’s notes.

Edelgard looks at you like you've just insulted her whole noble lineage. “That isn't how magic works.”

You throw your arms up in frustration to emphasise that yes, that's the point. You don't know how anything works in this place, and you doubt Byleth's four pages of lesson plans are going to help.

“If no one comes to your aid, maybe it is time you take matters into your own hands.” You flinch at the scornful sound in Edelgard’s voice. Judging the expression on her face, she seems just as surprised about her outburst. She gets up abruptly and bids farewell with a curt nod, followed closely by Hubert as always. Her classmates look after her, each more puzzled than the next.

“Didn’t she seem … angry to you?” Linhardt thinks aloud, blinking into the empty space.

Ferdinand harrumphes. “She’s always like this. Please excuse her, Herald.”

You don’t think she’s done anything wrong, and yet she certainly doesn’t appear as always. Something about her last words strikes you as especially sharp; reproachful. Those weren’t meaningless words, but you don’t have any ways to decipher the message. A little voice tells you she isn’t wrong either. So far nothing has helped returning your memories—Manuela’s medicine, herbs from the Greenhouse, Hanneman’s spells. It seems like your brain has built defencive walls to repel any probing, which begs the answer to the question what is hiding in secret even more. But can you really do it on your own, like Edelgard suggests? It seems impossible.

With newfound doubt you finish your meal, saying your goodbyes to the now scattering Eagle students as they scurry off to their next lesson. Two hours are left before you’re meeting with Byleth and the house leaders, and since you agreed to look over Linhardt’s notes, the library seems a good next stop. You still want to go over the seven classical manoeuvres of war, especially since the students didn’t really grasp the remaining two last time, and it gives you a good excuse to look over them again as well. At the beginning, you thought there was nothing you could teach those children, not with experienced colleagues at your side who have participated in countless battles themselves. Who could have thought that talking about tactics and strategies came as natural to you as breathing. Well, Rhea did for certain, and even the students drink up your every word like it is a message from the Goddess herself and you her chosen herald. The irony of it.

But it isn’t only the students accepting your guidance. Something inside you changed in the last couple of weeks as well. When you started going through the books in the library, it was more stumbling and slipping on foreign terrain, but just in a couple of days, you moved through the matter like a fish following smoothly the currents of its native waters. It felt like home. Like building the foundation of a house from thousand variables, the result different each time but still the same: art. You build the art of battle, the last decision that will bring victory or death. You love every second of it. Which opens the possibility that it really isn’t your first time, but also more questions: Who taught you? What battles have you fought? How many of them did you win? Since those aren’t as simple to answer, you focus on fulfilling the first purpose, and hope that it will some day be enough for the students to survive battles.

If only it would end there. Your second duty isn’t as easy or pleasant, and it lies in wait for you everywhere, stalking you like a dark shadow with monstrous fangs.

“Herald.” A soldier gives a courteous bow, intercepting you in the Great Hall on your way to the library. “Pilgrims ask for you near the Entrance Hall. Please allow me to escort you.”

Immediately, your nerves tingle with nervous anticipation. This is the scary part. Meeting the people, seeing the hope in their eyes. You’d gladly send them back where they’ve come from, but some have travelled for multiple days, and denying them audience would be cruel.

“Don’t let me stop you from your duties,” you say, unconsciously tugging your clothes in order to appear presentable. “I will welcome them on my own.”

The soldier nods and bows again, his expression barely readable under the helmet before he disappears as quickly as he came.

Planning lessons is easy. You can find whatever you need in the library and work out the flow with the students. But nothing can prepare or teach you how to act like the Herald people wish for. Nowhere is anything written on the old Herald, how he talked to them and what promises he’d whispered when day broke. That is where you are on your own. Not even Rhea could answer that question. She only instructed that you see them, and remind them about their devotion to the Goddess—for she was the one who made it possible in the first place.

The Entrance Hall is emptier than usual. Most of the students are in class, and a handful of knights and soldiers might be at the advanced training camp Jeralt and Alois hold in honour of the Blade Breaker’s return. So spotting the pilgrims isn’t difficult. Especially with the Gatekeeper waving his arms in wide arcs as if fearing you might overlook him.

“Greetings, Herald!” His grin is blinding. “The pilgrims are waiting for you just at the at the foot of the stairs.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I can see them.”

“Oh, yes, of course! If anyone causes problems, count on me to help!”

“Thanks.” You answer his thumbs up with one of your own before moving downstairs. What a refreshing young man. Certainly good looking under his helmet. Byleth seems to like talking to him a lot as well.

Today’s pilgrims aren’t much different from other days. Old people are supported by their family members, who have brought baskets with sweets and flowers, presenting them at your feet.

“Herald,” they breathe in awe, bowing. No matter how often you’ve seen it by now, it still feels incredibly wrong.

“Raise your heads,” you tell them, helping an elderly woman up to hrer feet. She gasps at your touch, then clings to your hands. You try to swallow past the lump in your throat. “The Archbishop and I bid you welcome. The Goddess will smile upon your devotion.” Your cringe slightly when echoing Rhea’s words and wonder if any second the goddess might punish you by throwing lightning your way.

“We are blessed to finally meet you,” a younger woman says, taking the old woman from your hands—mother and daughter maybe? “Please accept our gifts, and may the Goddess guide you on your path to light.”

“She will answer your prayers and guide me so I can bring you peace,” you reply just so you can say something they might want to hear. Judging their delighted expressions this wasn’t the worst you could have said. Dorothea would probably be proud looking at your acting skills. Or point out your bad posture and how you’re avoiding their eyes. Dorothea would probably tell you how much you have to polish your acting skills.

“Bring us peace?” someone from the last row spits, pushing to the front. “You know nothing, the Herald will bring chaos and ruin!” A man in his forties looms above you, an ugly, padded scar crossing his face from one temple to his chin. A war veteran? They way he holds himself looks like he’s been beaten up once too much to get up again.

“You heathen, don’t you dare speak to our Herald like that,” the old woman barks, immediately doubling over in a coughing fit. Her daughter supports her, glaring at the man. “Go in peace, but go if you only came to talk ill about our Herald,” she says, clearly upset. "Doubting them is doubting our Goddess. How dare you."

“First I want to see the Herald _do_ something! What if … if this one is an impostor.” The man turns towards the others, throwing his arms in the air. “Bring forward proof that you are not here to ruin our lands, but to actually serve in the Goddess’ name!”

This time his demand meets less resistance. Until now people were fine with seeing you and the Crest, but to want actual prove? You could easily threaten them and ask if they doubt the Goddess’ decision, but you’d rather leave that method to Rhea. You don’t want to sound like her. You don’t want to _scare_ people. Yet admitting that you don’t really have a clue how to really use the Crest would surely support the man’s accusation. Diminishing the people’s trust in the Herald is the last thing you want, especially if it means facing Rhea’s scorn.

“I—”

“Herald!” A voice calls from the top of the stairs. When you turn around, Sylvain waves and jogs downstairs, looking like he’s been running for some time. “There you are. The Archbishop wants to see you.”

Oh no, has she heard of your failure already? Giving the choice of facing a group of doubting people or Rhea, you’d immediately go to the people. You give him a curt nod, unable to speak because you don’t trust your voice.

“I apologise,” you say to the pilgrims, clearing your throat when it comes out as a croak. “I will have something prepared for another time.”

“No, you do not need to prove anything to us,” the elderly woman says. “We will always believe in you. Please tell Her Grace we are constantly praying to our Goddess and thank her for sending you to us.”

“I will.” You squeeze her hand a last time. “Save travels.”

The man still glares at you, but without a chance to keep you present any longer, he turns away and follows the rest. You can’t wait to leave all that behind, and as you steel your nerves for what’s waiting for you in the Audience Chambers, you look up to Sylvain and ask, “Did Lady Rhea say what it is about?”

He looks over at you and blinks a couple of times, then seems to remember. “Ah ... yeah, about that. I lied.”

You stop dead in your tracks. “You lied?”

“Yup. I don’t know what Lady Rhea’s doing. But you looked like you were about to puke at those poor pilgrim’s shoes. As hilarious as that would have been, I wanted to spare you the embarrassment.” He stops now as well and smiles a boyish crooked grin. Sylvain knows exactly what to do with his face so girls fall over themselves to do him a favour, and boys grow jealous of all the attention he gets. Two weeks in, and you’ve figured out his game, keeping a respectable distance that wouldn’t birth the thought you’re avoiding him. In fact, this could be the very first time you’re actually holding a real conversation.

“Well, I … thank you? But I had everything under control.”

He looks like he doesn’t believe you. The gatekeeper you’re just passing looks like he doesn’t believe you. You press your lips into a thin line and dare any of them to disagree.

“Okay.” Sylvain shrugs. “But now we’re here.”

“Sylvain, what do you want?”

“Cutting to the chase, huh?” He crosses his arms behind his head. “Why do you think I want something?” Your raised eyebrows seem to be answer enough. Sylvain laughs a little helplessly and returns his hands back to his front, raised as an offer of peace. “I promise, I want nothing. Just a little talking. A little talking hasn’t hurt anyone.”

Something inside you wants to argue against it, but without a solid argument in hand, you follow him silently, wondering where his destination and intention lies. He belongs to the many students you can’t really read, nothing about his ambitions or goals. Sometimes he gives you this strange look through half lidded eyes, his gaze focused on your right eye—his interest in your Crest undeniable, and yet he’s been one of the few not to talk about it with you. It’s strange because whenever you come together, he looks like there’s something he’s dying to say. This time is no different.

He leads you to the wooden pavilion in the gardens, but instead of offering you a seat, Sylvain leans his slim hips against the table, half sitting on it. Seteth would be furious seeing this.

“How’s the Herald business doing for you?” he asks the one question you wouldn't expect from him. “Other than you having ‘everything under control.’” He has the audacity to air-quote. This isn’t a conversation you want to hold right now, leastwise with him. Sylvain must discern that you’re ready to bold from whatever your body is showing. With a quick step, he’s standing between you and the escape route, lazily leaning one arm against a column to uphold the illusion that you’re only having a pleasant talk when in reality his body stands between you and your freedom.

“Do you talk to the other faculty members like that as well?” you say through gritted teeth, crossing your arms. Sylvain blinks like he doesn’t understand, but you’ve seen this act before, followed by an eerily precise repetition of a subject to one of his classmates when he thinks none of the teachers pay attention. Sylvain is playing dumb and deliberately hiding a sharp mind.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend,” he quickly says, nothing about this crooked smile appearing apologetic whatsoever. “I’m generously curious. You’re holding up really good.”

“In comparison to what?” you demand, your heartbeat picking up. Is he trying to call you out on something? That you aren’t heraldy enough? But to your surprise, Sylvain looks genuinely surprised by your reaction.

“To nothing. In general?” He shrugs. “Back on the ceremony day, you didn’t look so good standing up there, and His Highness told us everything happened really uh … ‘suddenly.’’ More air-quotes, whatever they mean this time.

“If you mean I wasn’t really asked to become the Herald, then yes.” Your arms drop back to your side. “It was suddenly.”

Sylvain watches you for a moment, and again, there’s this look in his eyes; the need to say something he can’t. He kneads the back of his nape, avoiding your eyes. “All I’m trying to say is … having that Crest out of nothing is cool. Probably. And maybe terrifying? And just—”

You grow impatient. “Come on, get the words out, Sylvain.”

“A Crest isn’t just this nice letter of invitation to a privileged life. Just take care, is all I’m saying.”

And there’s another page to the book of surprises with Sylvain’s name on it. The immediate lack of response catches him off guard; it’s like he only notices now that the vital part to understand this conversation is missing: The source of his doubt towards Crests.

Sylvain’s body turns in a split second, his feet facing the direction he’s ready to bold towards, but this time you stand in his way and block him off. “Sylvain, are you okay?”

He blinks in confusion, then furrows his eyebrows in deep thought like you demanded he recites the Ten Heroes from memory or else fails classes. His face contorts with the effort of looking fine. “Why, yes! Just peachy. Why would you think something is off?”

“Because I have eyes in my skull.”

“Very pretty eyes, if I dare say.” His answer comes out like a fire spell, hard and fast, seemingly more instinct than anything else. He clears his throat and scratches his chin, loosing momentum. “Goddess, I am bad at this.”

“You are.” No need to sugar coat it. “If something happened, just say it.”

“Nothing really happened, I just—” He exhales audibly and stares into space for a long minute, before side stepping you without difficulty. “Actually, I remembered Professor wanted to see me after class. Something about extra lessons about eh. Horse riding. Yeah. I’ll catch you later, Herald.” He winks and bolds away, darting under your outstretched arm before you can catch him. For someone this tall, he’s surprisingly agile and fast, already disappearing behind a tall hedge towards the main building.

If that wasn’t the strangest conversation you’ve held with anyone, you don’t know what might excel that. Maybe it’s time you stop avoiding Sylvain.

The Training Grounds smells of sweat and oil. Many students and knights train, which is surprising at this kind of hour, the short break between afternoon and evening classes. You’d like to know what they’re working on, but Byleth doesn’t tolerate inattention in a classroom or on the battle field, and demands you do push-ups each time your eyes wander somewhere off. You hate her a little for that. For whatever reason, Claude has taken on the role of your partner in crime, and does whatever necessary to make Byleth punish him as well.

“What can I say, I like a good workout,” he said when you asked. He didn’t even try to hide his lie, looking as miserable as you felt. Probably hating Byleth a little as well.

It’s the fourth week of private training with her and the house leaders, and so far you can definitely say that you were not meant to fight on the field. You see how your opponent moves, you can somehow predict what they’re going to do next—but your body simply protests to act accordingly. You stumble, you fall, you need a second too long to get up and before you can do anything, a training sword is at your throat. Byleth always looks like she wants to facepalm her fist through her forehead. Or yours.

“Herald, this is not how you disarm someone,” she says, as always, and demonstrates it in one smooth, swift movement, as always. You blow hair out of your eyes, knowing you’re about to fail again. At least that gave Claude a reason to give you a new nickname, though if it’s better than the last is debatable.

“You gotta twist your wrist, duckling!” he calls from the other side of the hall, immediately drawing Byleth’s attention to him. He and Dimitri are facing off, both wielding a spear which should give Dimitri the upper hand. So far, he hasn’t landed a single hit on Claude.

“Keep your elbows in!” Byleth berates Claude. “Stop flapping them like some kind of chicken.”

Claude lets out a disturbingly convincing cluck.

You raise an eyebrow. “At least someone’s having fun.”

Byleth sighs. “He’s going to get himself killed sooner than later.”

“I don’t know. He’s managed so far, hasn’t he?”

“I’m not sure if it’s a talent or a fault.” She turns back to you and nods her chin towards the side. “Take a break. I’m going to see how the boys are doing.”

You nod, tensing all over because that’s where Edelgard is currently standing and picking out a training axe. You haven’t talked to her since lunch, and you can do without it for a couple more hours. She barely glances at you when you walk over, and instead checks out the edge of the wooden blade, turning it left and right.

“Is she as strict in the classroom as in here?” you ask, unable to go on in awkward silence. Edelgard hums, throwing a quick glance towards Byleth from under her long, white lashes. “She’s systematic and consistent. Capable in both fields. I have no reason to raise any kind of complaint.”

“That’s impressive.” You sure as heck still wouldn’t want her as a teacher. “Even though she’s been pushed into all this, she handles it like she’s never done anything else.”

“I think as a mercenary, she is used to changing approaches depending on the employer.” Edelgard is still looking at Byleth. Reading her expression is impossible, and you don’t want to point out that sticking a sword into thieves and bandits is not the same as teaching kids how to fight in a battle. Her head whips to you suddenly, and she considers the training sword in your hand. “Speaking of different approaches,” she continues, “have you considered that your field of combat might be magic?”

You have, so the answer comes immediately. “Chances are higher I set myself on fire.” You stare at her. “I didn’t mean it to rhyme.”

Edelgard ignores your last comment. “But you haven’t really tried it out, have you?” Your lack of response is answer enough for her, and she nods like that proves a point.

It’s complicated. You haven’t really tried it out because … the simple answer is, you’re afraid. It gets tricky once you try to search for the answer to that. There’s just a strange sensation when you try to use magic, like there’s a vast sea of possibilities and one step inside is enough to get you lost. It isn’t as bad with wind spells or white magic. You haven’t touched Fire spells because a crippling fear chills you to the bones every time you manage to nourish a small flame inside your palm—the complete opposite to Dark magic. When you tried a _Miasma_Δ for the first time it felt strangely … secure. The rope tying you to a shore, it had felt like—

There’s a loud crash when the spears collide and Claude knocks Dimitri off his feet. The whole room is silent as everyone watches how Claude taps the blunt end of his practice spear against Dimitri’s chin. “Steady on there, darling,” he says with a smug grin. Dimitri flushes bright red, and pushes with more force than necessary the spear away, quickly climbing to his feet.

“That wasn’t bad.” Byleth quickly steps in before Dimitri can throttle Claude. “Dimitri, you rely too much on your brute strength. That’s a big disadvantage against someone like Claude. And you, young man,” she turns to Claude who’s been smiling victoriously, “are scheming too much and lose time to take action. In a serious battle, you won’t be as lucky as today.”

“Noted.” Claude whirls his spear from left to right, almost dropping it when Dimitri drills his elbow into his side. “But in a _serious_ battle, I won’t be upfront. I’ll be hanging back nicely, and skewing my enemies with a myriad of arrows.”

“You can barely shoot three at the same time,” Dimitri grumbles, his cheeks still splotched with red specks.

“You wanna bet—”

“That’s enough, guys, save it for then next round.” Byleth ignores their sulky expressions and turns to you, raising a single eyebrow. The message is clear. _What are you waiting for?_

Your feet feel like they’re glued to the ground. Edelgard doesn’t hesitate at all. “Let’s go.”

She strides in the middle, training axe raised. It’s made out of wood, but you don’t doubt that she’s able to severe a limb from your body if she only tries hard enough—and what you know of Edelgard is that she _always_ exceeds even her own expectations. You grip your sword tighter. It’s a clear disadvantage, but better than anything else you can handle. Maybe it won’t be as bad.

The fight lasts for about seven seconds. The moment you raise the blade, Edelgard is on you and unleashes fierce strike after strike, the power behind each hit forcing you back. She doesn’t bat an eyelash when she easily disarms you, the wooden sword flying over your heads and the edge of her axe on your throat. Somewhere behind her, you hear Byleth sigh. “Again.”

The next hour is torture. Edelgard throws you to the ground, again and again. Byleth keeps telling you to get up, again and again. One might think they would cut you some slack, being the Herald and all, but it feels like Edelgard is so much more aggressive today _because_ you’re the Herald. Or maybe it’s personal. Maybe she’s appointed you to be her sworn enemy, and won’t miss out any chance to make it as hard as possible for you.

This isn’t fun. Being watched by Dimitri and Claude, who whisper conspiratorially to each other isn’t fun. Luckily, Byleth notices them gawking and bellows them to focus on working on their stances. Right now, you’re thankful nothing escapes her eyes and she calls her students out on their bullshit. It doesn’t make your current situation easier though. Every muscle burns, just raising the sword is exhausting and your feet feel like they’re about to give out any second. This must be hell.

When Byleth finally ends lessons, you ignore everything and crumble to the ground, splaying your limbs out in all directions. Surely they can clean up without you, two hands less will barely make any difference.

A shadow settles over you. You know who it is, and don’t bother to open your eyes. “Go away, Byleth. I don’t want to hear how bad I am.”

“Personally, I think you have improved, Herald.” Your eyes snap open. Dimitri looks down at you, his forehead still glistening from perspiration. “But facing Edelgard as an opponent usually wields those results. Don’t let it bother you.”

You want to point out that he and Claude don’t seem to have as much problems as you, even though yes, none of them have defeated her yet in practice. He goes down to your level and sits beside you, and you hate how this all barely made him breath hard, like it’s just a stroll around the monastery whereas you’re trying to climb the mountains surrounding it.

“I think she hates me,” you blurt out. Luckily, most students have already left the hall, Edelgard included. Dimitri considers this a moment, and you don’t know what to make of his lack of immediate response.

“I doubt she hates you,” he finally says.

“But?”

“But she has a hard time warming up to people. Give her time. Once the ice is broken, you will see that her personality is one you’d like to have around.”

“Oh?” You watch him for a moment, but Dimitri doesn’t blush or look away. It was a heartfelt, sincere statement, which flusters _you_ for some reason. No one should be that honest.

“Talking about breaking ice. Do you know if something happened to Sylvain?”

“Sylvain?” Dimitri raises both eyebrows. “Please don’t tell me he harassed you in some kind of way.”

“No, no, he just—” You finally get up from lying on your back, and try to explain it by frantically moving your hands. Dimitri still looks puzzled. “He said some weird things about Crests in general?”

“Hm.” Dimitri stares at your hands for a moment, then quickly raises his eyes back to your face. “It’s complicated.” Well, that answer is as good as none. “And I won’t go into details without his consent. I can only say that if he talked about Crests, in whichever way, his brother must have upset him again.”

“He has a brother?” Now you’re wide awake. Many students have siblings. You know of Hilda’s brother and Raphael’s sister. It shouldn’t surprise you Sylvain has one as well even though he’s never mentioned it before.

“Do you have siblings?” you ask, generously curious. As heir to a kingdom, it’s hard to imagine his parents would have settled with one child. But he hasn’t mentioned any sisters or brothers as well.

“Hmm, I have a step-sister,” he says, although very hesitant and you can see if someone doesn’t want to talk about a specific topic. He doesn’t return the question, which is kind of him and makes you wonder … maybe you have a sibling as well. Somewhere. Maybe somewhere in Adrestia or Leicester a younger brother or an older sister is currently looking for you, unrelenting in their journey to be reunited at last. The thought alone brings a flicker of hope alive. Maybe they'll come once word of the Herald’s return travels far enough.

“I guess as long as Sylvain doesn’t disturb classes or acts out of order, I would leave him to his brooding. I can tell out of experience, only Felix is capable of cheering him up.”

“Felix?” Your eyebrows rise to your hairline. “Are we talking about the same Felix?”

A smile forms on Dimitri’s mouth. “I understand why imagining that might prove difficult, but I assure you, Felix is one of the view exceeding in handling the mess Sylvain is from time to time.”

“Felix and Ingrid?” you guess, earning a nod from Dimitri. “Ingrid is a very nice girl,” you continue, picking at a loose thread from your uniform. “But Felix seems _detests_ me. Every time he sees me, he looks like he wants to throw his sword at me.”

“That is—” Dimitri stops mid-sentence. “That might be not so far off from his true intentions.”

You groan.

“But I assure you it is for a different reason than you think. Felix is simply … difficult with people holding a commanding position.”

“He doesn’t seem to have the same problem with Byleth,” you point out. No, whenever he trains with her, he manages something close to a smile and accepts her guidance. Then again, she isn’t his teacher.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to make him consider his opinion on you during the Mock Battle. I as well am looking forward to how you will guide us.” Dimitri beams. You stare at him like he’s just lost his head.

“What?”

“The Mock Battle three nights from today?” Dimitri’s smile falters a little. “Have the Professor and Lady Rhea not told you yet? You are to participate in the Mock Battle as the commanding unit of the Blue Lions.” Now he’s pulling his eyebrows together in worry. “Herald?”

“I—” You jump to your feet. “I have to go.” Go far far away. Just yesterday you introduced the students to the tactic called Feigned Withdrawal, which involves staging a retreat in order to induce the enemy to abandon its position and plunge ahead in an attack. Dimitri abandons his position, getting up to go after you, but instead of turning back to surprise him with an ambush, you flee the battle and hope the enemy doesn’t pursue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, nothing much happened. Next chapter might take some time cause I'm busy with classes and video games and the other fanfic here so pwease stway pwatient


	4. Demands of the Faithful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most important thing first: I finally watched Pomare. Lio’s theme song slaps so hard, I love it.
> 
> WARNING:  
Since I decided to adopt the sewer babes and their story fits greatly into what I’ve planned for my own (not to say I cry a little about certain things that you’ll notices as the story progresses), there’s gonna be Ashen Wolves DLC spoilers from chapter 6 to 7 or 8 as the story will take place in Abyss. It won’t be a re-telling, but I will summarise story content from the DLC.
> 
> Also some were amazing enough to point out that I messed up portraying Felix, so I changed the scenes a little bit!

* * *

Chapter 04: Demands of the Faithful

_I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,  
And gather dust and chaff, and call  
To what I feel is Lord of all,  
And faintly trust the larger hope.  
_

[Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H.]_  
_

“I’m glad you could make time,” Byleth says, carefully placing her fine cup on the small bottom plate. If she notices how uncomfortable you feel, sitting in the centre of the yard, drinking tea, she ignores it. “Let’s think together about what we want to teach during the mock battle.”

“This is a bad idea,” you say, nibbling on your cup. “A very bad idea.”

The late afternoon hours are quiet, but it certainly helps that the tea arrangement is tugged away in a far off corner in the courtyard, hidden behind tall hedges that allow privacy. The sweet smell of chamomile tea and strawberry pastry is a nice exchange from the usual savoury smells you’re used to in the cafeteria. All around you, the high, spiky roofs of the monastery’s towers stand out against the fiery, orange sky, throwing longer and longer shadows as the sun sets behind the mountains. The clouds are soft, pink cotton-candy, blushing at the warm touch of the sun.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Byleth continues, cutting through a piece of cake with her fork. “We’ve seen what the house leaders are capable of. It’s time to see what the rest of the students can do.”

“Don’t take me wrong. I think a mock battle will help them grow,” you agree. “I just don’t really understand why it’s me who has to lead the Blue Lions.”

“I think Professor Hanneman is not present at the day of the mission,” Byleth explains. “It seems on the last day of Lone Moon he always leaves the monastery for a private reason. And I assume Lady Rhea means to see the extent of your power.”

That’s what you expected as well. In the last couple of days you realised your power is a muscle, to be exercised daily, never to be pushed to the extreme. It was a strenuous task to try out how much is too much; where there’s still room. Under the keen eyes of Hanneman, you two practised day after day, trying to figure out how much your body can take before exhaustion sweeps over you and renders you immobile. Crests usually don’t have a limit; depending on their nature they grant a permament boost to the bearer’s abilities. Muttering under his breath, Hanneman had made quite a show to remind you what a curiosity the Crest of the Herald is. Like you wouldn’t know.

“Since we’re going to be on the field as well, you might want to get more practice with the sword,” Byleth proposes, and you groan. She has a way of being brutally honest, and so far no one’s been spared to get the brunt of it. “I’m not letting my students hold back. Not even against you.”

“You really are a voice of confidence, you know.” Shoulders drooping like someone took the wind from your sails, you throw your head back and drink the rest of your tea. Byleth’s expression doesn’t change, and you wonder why you even try being funny around her.

After clearing the table, Byleth accompanies you to your next lesson hall. It’s nice in theory, but her vigorous way of trying to drill sword techniques into your head on the way doesn’t hide her true agenda. Only slowly, you begin to realise that is maybe her way of caring for someone. Brutish in appearance, but once you look past the first impression of indifference, Byleth’s silent demeanour speaks louder than words.

Students linger in small groups in front of the class rooms, their exhausted faces from a full day of lessons and hard training visible in the way they carry their bodies. If you had a say in it, you’d cancel the evening lessons and let them rest; a reoccurring debate inside the faculty that doesn’t go anywhere. Byleth stops in front of the class room, surveying the students with a cool gaze, when suddenly Claude and Hilda jog towards you, and by “jogging” they decided Hilda to be the only one running while carrying Claude bridal style like he weighs nothing. As they pass you, Claude tips an invisible hat in your direction, calling “Hey, teach,” and then immediately “Bye, teach!” as they cross the courtyard.

Your gaze follows them. “What just happened.”

Byleth doesn’t even bother to look. “Claude and Hilda happened.”

Heavens, you don’t know if you’re able to handle them later.

After exchanging goodbyes with Byleth, you tackle the next forty minutes with a belly full of sweets and a mind occupied with worrying about everything you might do wrong next week. Forming two groups, you hand out two different manoeuvres you dug out of books, and present the task, “Work out the pros and cons of each battle tactic, and present them to the class. Explain where you would have done things differently, and why.”

Sylvain raises his hand.

“Yes, you can leave to bathroom breaks without asking me,” you say.

Sylvain drops his hand. Then raises it again.

“No, you can’t bring animals you find on your way back to your seat,” you say.

He drops his hand. Beside him, Ingrid fails to stifle a groan.

Twenty minutes later, the first group stands in front of the class. Mercedes’s steady hand draws the perfect copy of the manoeuvre on the chalk board while Annette recites every step flawlessly. They’re a powerful combination, and that’s only half owed to their friendship. Mercedes is soft; she’s the silk hiding the dagger that Annette’s sharp mind is. There’s strength in kindness, and both have honed this ability to a razor-sharp weapon. There’s still a pouch of unfinished cookies Mercedes has baked for you left in your room, something to keep in mind for the next tea hour with Byleth. Felix and Dedue don’t add much, and you’re a little afraid to ask, seeing how Felix’s eyes burn holes in the back of Dedue’s head. There’s been rumours going on about a dispute, but no details, and you gladly leave that sort of teacher-student business to Hanneman.

The remaining students do their job almost just as good. But the thought of children being so confident in ways of war and killing leaves a painful twinge in your chest. You wonder what will become of them all in a few years, what battles they will win. What battles they will lose—this fear lingers at the edges of your consciousness like an ever-present shadow. To push it away, you try to refocus on the task at hand.

“Look at the battalions you have,” you advise, tapping a finger against the cool surface of the board. It comes away white with chalk, leaving a white smudge on your robe as you wipe it off. “Where are they placed?”

Ashe clears his throat. “Two Lance Soldiers, that’s Infantry. One Magic Squadron, also Infantry. The latter is stationed far northeast on that island. Two Pegasus Corpses, which are Flying Types. We put them behind the mountains to ambush the enemies on their way to one of our Infantries.”

“A good idea in theory,” you acknowledge, and don’t miss how Ashe exhales in relief. “And where are you enemies?”

“They’re facing our Infantry and the Squadron,” Dimitri steps in now. “The Flying Unit engage from the back. After their victory, Infantry and Flying close the last opposite unite off on the bridge, and join the Magic Squadron in fighting.”

“Okay, okay,” you nod. “And now look at the terrain of this last unit you want to take on from the front and back. The one on the bridge moving towards the Squadron.”

The room is quiet for a minute, and then a silent “Oh” from Ashe.

“Yes. Oh. The Magic Squadron moves slower through the woods. You’ll lose them. And one of the Lance units is probably the next to go.” You draw sharp lines across the board with red chalk, changing the battalion’s movements. One goes across the whole board, crossing out the word _Sea_. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to have your Pegasus Companies move this way across the water, join the Magic Squadron and then close in from the right to join the Infantries?”

“But Herald.” Ingrid raises her hand, but doesn’t wait for you to pick her. “If Infantry and Flying take out the first enemy, we’ll still win. The remaining unit will be trapped on the island without a possibility to retreat. Wouldn’t it be wiser to sacrifice the Magic Squadron just for that?”

“I agree with Ingrid,” says Sylvain. He’s sitting on a desk, and swings his legs back and forth. “With or without them, we won the battle, and that’s what matters.”

You turn back to scan the manoeuvre one more time. They’re right—blocking the enemy’s escape routes off proves a solid guarantee to win, and yet you’ve somewhat hoped they wouldn’t settle on this option. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, turning your lips upside down as if you’ve bitten into a lemon.

“Sometimes, you don’t want to win the battle,” you start slowly, the thought blossoming from a dark place deep inside you. “Sometimes you want as many as possible to live.” Which is easier said than done, and no one in the room agrees on your statement because they know just as much that such a choice isn’t always granted. Before the silence stretches on too long, you quickly add, “I guess it is more important to know there is no right or wrong answer. You make decisions later on that will either grant you victory or death, and you will have to live with those decisions.”

Unanimous murmur sounds from the students, a topic nobody wants to dwell on too long, and you grant them that wish; this precious little time they’re still allowed to be children and make mistakes before responsibilities catch up to them. The rest of the lesson flies past without disturbances, and when the bells announce the break, they jump from their seats and scurry outside.

“Don’t forget there’s going to be a test after the mock battle,” you call after them, knowing they’ll forget anyway and then boycott. The Lions are finally done with lessons, but there is the Deer House who have the misfortune to attend the last period of the day. As you prepare their unit of instruction on different terrains, Dimitri approaches you, his expression a mixture between confidence and tension.

“Herald.” He stops in front of your desk, shoulders squared into a declaration of deference. “I have prepared instructions on everyone’s weaknesses and strengths. Please, do consider to take a look. Since one of the rules is that only six units will be stationed on the field, I hope this will make your decision easier who to choose.” Placing the papers with outmost care on your table, Dimitri hesitates a moment before continuing, “What you said earlier … truth be told, I think the same. To limit the loss of lives as much as possible should be a priority to a leader as well. To hear that from someone like you … I was quite glad.”

“Someone like me,” you repeat, but you’re more surprised to feel your fingers itch to take the papers and get a first read on everyone. After going through similar notes from Linhardt, you’re now excited to learn more about your proteges, and with luck someone from the Golden Deer students might provide you with a first survey as well.

“Someone responsible for tactics and strategy,” Dimitri quickly clarifies. “Someone tasked with bringing absolute victory.” He gives you a look that is somehow both caressing and calculating at the same time. “I understand that those sometimes compete with one’s own beliefs regarding the value of life. One’s conscience is as much of a weapon as a sharpened blade. If it breaks, what use is there to a person.”

“Those are … some mature thoughts.” You don’t know where this observation goes. Of course he is mature, he _has_ to be as the successor of a noble lineage. “For someone your age.” You press your mouth into a thin line, cursing your inability to think of a better response. But Dimitri simply smiles—a smile that is like a light suddenly being turned on in every room of a dark house.

“Oh, but I do not want to bore you with such matters. I just wanted to add, I really do look forward to have you on our side during the mock battle.” He gives a little courtesy bow. “Let us discuss the details on the day before the mission. A good evening to you, Herald.”

Dimitri leaves with a little bounce to his step. It’s probably better he’s in high spirits, even though you aren’t sure what exactly made him happy. It would be a real shame to extinguish his excitement by being an utter failure during the battle, so you make sure to read whatever he managed to put together about his classmates as soon as possible. There’s still some minutes left before the first Deer students will enter. Exhaustion lulls you into resting your eyes, and the moment your head is cradled in your arms, you doze off.

It’s the third time you have this dream after joining the Officer’s Academy, though calling it a ‘dream’ is a stretch—there is nothing happening, nothing to see. Only white, as pure and unblemished as a young lily blossom in early spring. Only this time this picture—maybe a memory, but of what or where you can’t say—is different.

_Wake up_, a voice whispers, barely recognisable and dull, spoken behind a wall of water. _Wake up_.

Your hands weigh a ton. Unable to reach out and grasp it, the dream blurs, slipping through your fingers like sand.

_Wake up_.

“Herald, wake up,” Claude persists. “You’re drooling on my test papers.”

His hand brushes your shoulder and you jump, all focus on the dream dispersing. Multiple voices fill the room in a shower of sounds, not helping to regain your senses of where you are. It doesn’t help that your right eye throbs dully, and as you rub it to somehow reduce the sensation, white spots dance across your vision.

“So sorry, Herald,” Claude smirks with his hand still hovering over your shoulder. “Didn’t mean to wake you from your beauty rest, but Hilda planned to draw obscene things on your face, and we can’t have that now, can we.”

“Liars never prosper, Claude!” comes Hilda’s response from somewhere in the back of the room. You groan, narrowing your eyes at him. Going back to sleep and stumbling about to try and figure out what’s going on sounds more pleasing than dealing with Claude’s shenanigans.

“Man, what a bummer you won’t join our House during the mock battle,” he continues as if Hilda hasn’t said anything. “If someone asked me, I think to have you fight for the Blue Lions is cheating.”

“But no one asked you?” you offer, indulging him with a weak smile.

“The audacity, right?” Claude rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, leaning against the teacher’s desk. “Just imagine the brilliant schemes we two could work out. Oh, I have an amazing idea. How about you ask Lady Rhea—”

“I’m not asking to be by your side during the battle.”

“Ouch.” Claude places a hand over his chest, right above his heart. “Immediately shut down. Who knew our dearest Herald would be such a heart breaker.”

You shoo him away, not only because he’s getting on your nerves, but there’s also Ignatz and Raphael standing in line, waiting for your attention.

“We’ve heard the students from the other Houses gave you some insight in their abilities,” Ignatz says, tugging a stack of papers to his chest. “We decided to give you one as well.”

“I’m sure you’ll like them,” Raphael chimes in, looking more excited than usual. “I gave Ignatz instructions on how to make our report the best. Forget boring words, Herald, we’ve prepared the real deal!” He rips the papers from Ignatz’s hands and slams them on your table. A crack sounds on the underside, and Raphael leans his whole weight upon the surface, completely oblivious to the protesting creak of the wood.

“Here, we started with Claude, since he’s the big shot and all that,” he explains, opening the first page. It shows Claude, a surprisingly accurate portrait of him, if not a little bit scrawny. He’s wielding a bow, nocking multiple arrows. Seems like Raphael wasn’t the only one giving instructions.

“And here is Leonie, and there’s Lorenz, and oh! That’s us working together as a team!” Raphael beams as he turns the page. In this picture, everyone is assembled, fighting against angry looking soldiers and horned monsters. There’s Lysithea and Marianne shooting lightning bolts from their hands, zapping their opponents. Raphael is carrying a huge stone, on top of it stands Hilda, wielding a mighty axe.

“These are the most accurate file reports I’ve seen,” you say for lack of better words. “It really is a shame I can’t join you for the mock battle.”

“There’s gonna be a next time, no worries!” Raphael gives you a thumbs up, then retreats to his seat, Ignatz by his side. They’re a funny duo, not just because of their different build. Their personalities seem the complete opposite, and yet strangely fit like a child’s box to sort blocks into the right shapes.

The difference between the Golden Deers and Blue Lions, for one, is the noise level. Instead of waiting for you to call them up one by one, they love to shout answers whenever they see fit. Judging who was the first isn’t really easy when four people scream at the same time, so you’ve given up on that—Claude’s policy whoever screams loudest didn’t help all too much as well. Maybe it’s time to ask Byleth about some tips how to handle them. When the bell tolls for the last time for this day, announcing everyone to be relieved of their work, the student clear out faster than during fire drills, leaving you with a turmoil of thoughts and worries and two little voices bickering about how much of a disaster next week is going to be.

After seven days and nights of restless sleep and vigorous training under the vicious supervision of Byleth, the green fields stretching before you end boarding on lush woods, its treetops protruding into the sky. It’s a wonderful day you would enjoy much more without knowing this is a battle field, and the people behind you wait for your command.

“Black Eagle and Golden Deer are in position. Captain Jeralt said the mock battle begins in roughly ten minutes.” Dedue gives you an expectant look, and you give him a curt nod, your mouth dry.

“Thanks. We’ll have a last briefing. After that, we’ll deploy our units.”

Dedue joins his classmates, leaving you to your troubled thoughts. With luck, none of your opponents will reach you, and you won’t have to fight. It’s as if you can feel Byleth’s taste for your blood all across the field, even though right now she’s just a blurry, dark blob in the distance, surrounded by her students.

“Do not worry, Herald.” The hard metal of a gauntlet on your shoulder makes you flinch, backing away from Dimitri. The worry on his face is a mirror of your own, albeit for different reasons. “Everyone will do their best to follow your orders, and fight with everything they've got. Your leadership will lead us to victory.”

“Oh, yeah!” You don’t meet his eyes. “For sure.” _Zero pressure and all that._ You don’t say that, seeing that most of the students don’t appear to be as nervous as you. Confidence is key, and even though you see none of it in tangible proximity, you can at least fake it until you make it.

Six minutes left. With a deep breath, you try to get hold of yourself, and face the Lions.

“Since we don’t know who will be deployed by Manuela and Byleth, prepare for everything. I want to split the group. Dimitri, Dedue and Mercedes move to the northern forest. Felix, Sylvain, you’re moving west with me.”

Felix pulls a grimace, but before he can say anything, Sylvain throws an arm around his shoulders and leans on him, gracing you with a full grin. “We got your back, Herald.” He earns a whack on his back from his friend.

“Why are we splitting up if our plan is to take out each group separately?” Dedue inquirers. “Isn’t that what we agreed on before?”

“I think the Herald plans to let our opponents think we plan on taking them both on at the same time.” Dimitri throws a quick glance at you. “We’ll draw them in our direction, and once they are near, we close in from both sides.”

You nod. “Precisely. We know the Black Eagles will start far north from us. The Golden Deers are northwest. As soon as one of them moves towards us, we’ll have to defeat them immediately. It will be easier fighting one House, not both at the same time.”

“Look at you, Your Highness.” Sylvain pats him on the shoulder, looking proud. “Someone’s been paying attention in class!”

“Sylvain—” Dimitri’s chiding meets deaf ears as Sylvain already turns away, checking his lance for a last time. But he does beam a little, you think. Or maybe it’s just the sun making everything look much brighter. It’ll go into your report nonetheless. Chances of a victory look good—even if you have to retreat, the Blue Lions might make it on their own.

The bressy sound of a horn echoes across the valley, reverberating in your bones. The mock battle begins.

The weight of the wooden training sword hanging from your hip is foreign; it’s as though you only expect to trip over it. Determined to keep it in its holster, you approach the grove, flanked by Sylvain and Felix—and not a minute too soon. Moving towards you is the first line of enemies, Ignatz, Lorenz and Marianne.

“I think they didn’t see us—” Sylvain starts just as the first arrow flies past his head and hits the trunk beside him with a _thunk_. For safety purposes, all arrow’s tips are wrapped up in stiff cloth, not intended to leave permanent wounds but surely still capable to deliver nasty bruises like the training swords and lances.

“I think they saw us—” Sylvain’s brilliant new observation ends in a yelp as Felix shoves him out of the line of fire.

“Get down, dumbass!”

You three duck behind bushes and trees, cautiously observing how the others advance, their weapons drawn.

“I’ll go for Ignatz,” you say. “Felix, you’re fast enough to reach Marianne and take her down before she starts healing everyone.”

“Fine, we’ll try your plan.” Felix has his sword drawn already, gripping it tight enough his knuckles turn white. “Try not to get kicked out too soon, will you.”

You blow a strand of hair from out of your eyes, squinting at his back as he jumps out of cover. The last couple of weeks you’ve put in some extra hours of sword practice with Felix. As an exceptional swordsman, noble and diligent in his training unlike anyone else—safe maybe for Dimitri—you imagined no one could teach you as much as possible in the short amount of time until the mission. It took some convincing, but the decisive argument that sold him was your desire to become better to finally have at least a chance against Byleth. If she is stern during practice, Felix is vicious, exploiting the tiniest opening you give in order to make you learn from your mistakes. Your body was a medley of pain and aches after every evening, but now the memory of that very same melody is your marching song towards battle. Then there’s always the knowledge that if you three can distract them long enough before the rest of the Golden Deer students arrive, Dimitri and the rest will close in on your position, and taking down your opponents won’t be difficult.

“Sylvain, Lorenz is yours.”

He answers with a simple salute, grip tight around his training lance, and as you both follow Felix out in the open, an image flickers before you, there and gone like a flame going out with a last glint. An arrow, headed straight at you. Your body moves in instinct, dodging the projectile not a second too late. Judging from the direction of its origin, Ignatz must be just beyond the rocks only a few hundred yards away. You throw a MiasmaΔ in his direction, the black ball carving its path across the grasslands. It hits the stone, chipping parts away and revealing Ignatz, crouching behind it. He looks up, dirt on his cheeks, and adjusts his glasses before ducking out of his cover, another arrow already ready on his bow.

Another arrow hits him on his back, hard enough to get him down on his knees. Mercedes’ accuracy isn’t as good as Ashe’s, but the determination carved into her face makes up for lack of skill. Dimitri and Dedue are right on her heels, but a single look thrown over your shoulder shows that Felix and Sylvain have everything under control. Coming out victorious as well, save for Sylvain pressing a hand against his ribs, they were still complete. The knowledge of that makes you sigh in relief, a new surge of hope soaring inside you.

“I knew we shouldn’t have listened to Claude’s dubious plan.” Lorenz’s bickering is still audible, even as the three proceed to leave the battle grounds to meet up with Jeralt. You’re really curious to see what exactly Claude had in mind, but diverting your focus for just a second could become dangerous. Instead, you turn towards the students.

“Stay close,” you order, waiting until Mercedes is finished checking Sylvain's injuries. “We’re going to move further towards the Golden Deers and eliminate them first.” Flexing your fingers against the slow growth of getting used casting spells, your group begins to move further north.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice Dimitri buckling and unbuckling his spear from his back. Out of lack for the right words, and because the first rush of adrenaline still courses through your body, you jostle against him, wearing a grin on your face.

“Look lively, Your Highness,” you advise. “All that nervous fumbling isn’t what a leader is supposed to do.”

A tiny gasps leaves him, more an exhale than anything else, but he turns towards you, slightly flushed. Bringing his hands to his sides, it’s too obvious he’s tensing his body so they don’t stray again—like a statue that’s on the edge of shattering at the tiniest movement.

“You’re right, of course.” He lowers his head a little. “I just keep thinking that the Black Eagle students wait for us in that direction as well. Some are surely moving towards us as we speak.”

“Are you worried about Byleth?” you wonder, and more as an afterthought add, “Or Edelgard?”

“Anyone who is not worried about Byleth is a fool, if you ask me,” he replies with a crease between his pale eyebrows. “And well, this is our first chance to prove ourselves, being the heirs to the ruling factions. I know Edelgard is exceptionally strong. And Claude surely has an ace up his sleeve. You are right, Herald. Nervousness is a sign of hesitation, of weakness. I will be better than that.” A new fire comes alive in his eyes as he strides onward, catching up to Mercedes and Sylvain to compliment her on the excellent shot from before.

The epiphany really comes only now, fast and hard like a lightning bolt, that these children will drink in everything you have to offer—advices, orders, simple words of encouragement—simply for the title that is strapped around your neck. The weight of that responsibility slows your steps, which allows for another worry to quickly catch up: has everything you have taught them so far been right? Do they really know how to exploit the advantages certain classes have over others; will a strategic retreat even occur to them in the right time before it’s too late.

Doubt is like poison, slowly eating you from the inside. This mock battle won’t just be a lesson for the students. It will also test if you have put them on the right path, and the realisation unfolds a new conviction inside you, breathing new wind into your sails.

You quickly catch up to them, another rush of encouraging words on your lips when another image flickers on and off, painting your sight red. You freeze, raising an arm, hand formed into a fist.

“Halt!” you shout, processing what you just saw. The students pause, forming a loose circle around you. The throbbing from before settles back in, more persistent now like someone’s knocking against the back of your skull to get your attention. You try to ignore that and focus on categorising every student’s ability in alphabetical order.

“Linhardt,” you gasp, eyes wide open and glued on Dedue.

The students exchange worried glances. Sylvain is the first to speak. “No, Herald,” he says. “Linhardt’s the pretty boy with all the books, you know. Who sleeps just about anywhere, like a cat. That’s our Dedue here.”

“No, I mean Linhardt has Nosferatu,” you quickly explain, flailing your hands in hope to express yourself better. It doesn’t look like it helps. “Linhardt is the only one left who can use Nosferatu, and he’s going to land a good hit on Dedue. And with good, I mean bad. If he hits you, you’re down, Dedue.” Because only that makes sense, as Marianne is already standing on the sidelines and you haven’t heard about anyone else learning the skill. Undoubtedly a Nosferatu will hit Dedue if you don’t change course or take the spell caster out first.

Dedue steps forward. “Should it give us an advantage against our enemy, I will gladly face the opponent and go down if it means it won’t interfere with our progress towards the Golden Deer students.”

“Sacrificing yourself for a mere praise from the boar, is that what you hope for?” Felix demands, or more like _snarls_, his handsome face crumpling into an ugly look of contempt. “Pathetic.”

“Sacrifice is a big word to throw around during a _mock_ battle, don’t you think,” Sylvain unhelpfully throws in, his posture a little too relaxed in the light of the conflict that’s about to break out.

Dedue shakes his head. “I am simply fulfilling my duty,” he states. “Anything that will bring His Highness victory.”

“You would also run head first into an ambush and get yourself killed, is that it?” Felix grimaces. “Blindly following orders—”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Your raised voice makes them pause, and you use that second to grab lead of the conversation. “We don’t even know if Linhardt is going to be alone or joined by other Eagle students. What do you think will your little act accomplish, Dedue?”

He sets his mouth into a grim, hard line, unable to come up with a satisfying answer that isn’t a repeat of what he just said.

“You’ll have a tough time going against Black Eagles with all their magic users, so stay with Dimitri. Go and deal with the rest of the Golden Deer students. And you—” You meet Felix’s glare with narrowed eyes. “A battlefield isn’t the place to throw around petty disagreements. You would do well to remember that.”

“Understood.” He rips the training sword from its holster. “But let me go take down that mage. I’ll cut him down swiftly.”

“We’ll go together. I’m not leaving any of you on your own. Take care of Claude,” you tell Dimitri, showing with a nod that you fully trust in his leading ability. “We’ll meet east from the barricades in exactly one hour.”

He doesn’t shy away from you glare. “Understood. Take care you two.”

Felix takes the lead with long, eager strides. As you follow him, you rub your eye, wincing at the pinprick-like pain. The dull throb doesn’t cease this time, and if you had to take a guess, there’s only once left for the Crest to activate before you reach your limit. So far, nothing has helped you to ascertain when exactly a foresight occurs, and leaving it to pure chance is like grasping a loose rope in hopes that it is tied to something _somewhere _as you take the leap. Maybe Hanneman will make more sense of it laters.

“You should have stayed with the others,” Felix says after a moment, scanning your surroundings for any sign of the enemy. It sounds more like a simple statement than an accusation. “I can handle someone like Linhardt on my own.”

“I said before, we don’t know if he’s alone. I highly doubt it.” It’s like Dimitri said before: Underestimating Byleth will surely end in casualties and defeat. You don’t consider it far-fetched that she has sent a non-magic class with Linhardt, but who that will be is left to be determined.

“No matter how many accompany him. Be it two or three or all of them, I will take them down.”

“It takes more than one person to win a war.” Though you don’t doubt Felix might try it by himself anyway. “You’ll notice soon enough that you will rely on your comrades.”

“I will rely on them as long as they don’t get in my way.”

“So charming,” you mumble to yourself as you two round a mound. It really is none of your business, but you're actually curious about what is going on between him and Dedue. The moment you finish outweighing the pros and cons of trying to go down that rabbit hole, the air around you changes, barely noticeable save for a change of wind—it completely stills for a second, but that is enough to realise what’s happening.

“Felix—” you manage before the Nosferatu explodes in front of you, knocking you to the ground. Before the mock battle, all magicians were instructed to weaken their spells; no lasting damage should befall any of the participants. Only because of that you manage to climb back on your feet, only left with dizziness that makes the world spin. The jarring sound of metal clashing against metal clears your mind a little, and when you turn around, Felix and Ferdinand are clashing blades.

You turn further, and there he is, a hand raised in your direction. “Sorry, Herald,” Linhardt says. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “The professor threatened with extra homework if we would hold back against you.”

“Of course she did,” you mumble, grabbing your sword with sweaty hands. Two against two is fair, and you have no doubt that Felix will hold his ground against Ferdinand. The only solution to your little problem named Linhardt is to get as close as possible, and make use of your advantage in meagre sword skills.

Another Nosferatu is sent your way, but this time you dodge, the hair on your neck standing on end. Somehow your body automatically shies away from Faith magic like a cat fleeing from water. Just one more hit will surely be enough to throw you out of the mock battle, and you can’t have that, not when the picture of Dimitri’s resolute expression is carved into your mind.

You close the distance, all nerves tensed in anticipation, completely focused on trying to feel where the next spell is going to land. As Linhardt retreats into the woods, his sight obscured by trees, you dive after him, shoving twigs out of your way. A shadow moves through the undergrowth; every muscle in your body locks up, but you plunge forward, sword raised—

Linhardt gasps when he finds himself pressed against a tree, your sword at his throat. With both hands up, he doesn’t move an inch, simply blinking at you. Somewhere above you, a bird cries out; a branch breaks. Linhardt makes a face like he jammed his foot in a door he slammed shut himself.

“I surrender,” he says. “Getting beat up and spending time in the infirmary doesn’t sound as good as reading tomes in the library.”

“You sure?” Your heart beats so loud in your chest, it’s a miracle it doesn’t break through your ribcage and fly off. “Byleth might drown you in homework for that.”

He shrugs. “I call it a strategic retreat. I’ll just have to—” A yawn. “—convince the professor.” Another yawn. You begin to see the ulterior motive behind his surrender. Squinting at him, you proceed to bind his hands with a dark spell. Black shackles appear around his wrists, locking them tight together. As you make your way out of the grove, you hope Felix had the same success.

That thought immediately dies when you return to the plain and see Jeralt heaving an unconscious Felix on the back of his horse, a battered Ferdinand by his side.

“Ah, Herald.” Even though beaten up black and blue, Ferdinand still manages a smile. It looks a little lopsided with his swollen cheek and the dried blood on his upper lip. “I don’t mean to offend, but I hope you return because Linhardt defeated you in mighty combat?” A second too late he sees the magic binds around Linhardt’s wrists. His face falls. “My, Linhardt.”

“You don’t quite look so good yourself,” Linhardt throws back without any heat in his voice. He sounds rather bored. Tired.

“Excuse me, but what happened. What’s wrong with Felix?” you ask, turning to Jeralt. Before he can answer, Ferdinand chimes in, “He fought splendidly! Though I had no doubt in that, he is a noble after all. Yet, after ringing me to the ground, he lost consciousness. By my honour as the heir of House Aegir, I cannot take advantage of that. We both shall step out of battle.”

“He passed out?” Now that you take a good look at him, he’s still pale, unhealthily so. Slick sweat glues his dark hair to his forehead, and the skin beneath his eyes shimmers slightly blue—lack of sleep.

“Overexertion, I guess,” Jeralt says now. He pulls Linhardt to his side, and gives his shackles a thoughtful look. “I’ll take these three with me. You go and continue the mock battle, Herald.”

“But…” It doesn’t feel right to leave Felix alone. Even though he technically isn’t, you imagine it would be better to wake up to a friendly face.

“He’ll be fine.” Jeralt gives you a strange sideway glance. “The other brats rely on you right now, don’t they? Go to them.”

He’s right, of course. The mission isn’t over yet, and with a strong combatant like Felix missing, victory has just slipped from your grasp.

There is the meeting point. There it is, and no student from the Lion House is in sight. The minutes pass in long stretches, ticking away until it’s impossible to tell if time moves on or holds still. Holding out between the trees, you look in both directions—for your comrades and the enemy. For whatever reason, Byleth has decided not to advance to your position, and you aren’t sure what that’s supposed to mean. More minutes pass in aggravating silence, heavy and oppressing, and then—

“Herald!” Dimitri’s voice rings through the woods. Your head snaps to him, and there they are, the Blue Lions tearing through the woods, a yellow flag with a deer on it waving behind them.

“You did it!” Joy and relief spreads through you as you stumble towards them. “You guys really did it!” They shuffle around you like kittens searching for warmth, and something tight uncoils inside your chest. Is this what Byleth always feels when she’s in front of her class?

“Hilda and Claude were mighty opponents, but nothing we couldn’t handle,” Dimitri reassures, but then a shadow jumps over his features. “Unfortunately, Mercedes had to leave. We couldn’t reach her in time to step in.”

“Step in,” Sylvain repeats, muttered under his breath as he brushes red locks from his sweaty forehead. “I want to see you stepping in when Hilda swings that axe like a lunatic and not scream like a little girl.”

“Where is Felix?” Dedue inquirers, ignoring Sylvain.

Your shoulders drop. “Well, Linhardt was accompanied by Ferdinand, and while I pursued Linhardt, they fought. None of them emerged unscathed, although I feel Felix drew the shorter straw.”

“Felix?” Dimitri repeats. He sounds as if you just tried to convince him it’s going to rain butterscotch pie later. “Our Felix lost?”

“Not exactly the fight, but I’m sure his pride took a hard beating.”

“Well, that leaves four against four.” Dimitri brings a hand up to his chin, a worry crease between his eyebrows. “And they still have Edelgard and the Professor.”

“And we got the Herald and you!” Sylvain beams. “I say we wrap this up and celebrate our victory with a nice dinner and maybe some ale? How does that sound?”

“Sacrilegious.” Your voice is drier than the crisp leaves cracking under your feet. “Aren’t you too young for alcohol?”

“Too young and irresponsible,” Dimitri agrees with you, looking tired of Sylvain’s antics. “But I don’t object to a celebratory dinner.”

“That is, if we win.” Dedue reads your mind, and brings the conversation back on the right course.

“I assume the Black Eagles are holding position. They’re waiting for us,” you say, briefly checking everyone’s state. Safe for dirt and scratches, they’re still doing good, though having fought already, the Blue Lions are on a slight disadvantage. You can only hope some of Byleth’s students dropped out facing the Golden Deers.

“We shouldn’t keep them waiting then.” Sylvain winks, playing with the grip of his lance. The smile that flirts with his lips is threatening.

“Keep your guard up.” Dimitri shares a single, meaningful glance with every one of you, then leads your little group out of the forest. Whatever Byleth has planned, you hope that you’ll be ready for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your support!! I'm in a rush now so sorry for this weird end, but I can't wait to work on the next chapters!! Just throw every mistakes you see my way, I'll beta the chapter in a few hours!
> 
> Also, this is my twitter, plz let me scream @ u about this story:  
https://twitter.com/mariya_mey


	5. Born to Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have finally returned 🙏. After 84 years, I finally got a switch and the game, so updates should resume more frequently as I finally continue writing. So this is more of a slow chapter until I get my rhythm back and take notes from all the routes. I did outline the whole story though, so all that’s left is just tweaking it here and there and write this bad boy.
> 
> Also, I went back and fixed a few typos and the Felix miss-characterisation a couple of you have pointed out. Thanks for that!! Don’t hold back if you notice more mistakes in the future!
> 
> To develop a writing schedule, I’m going to start streams!! If you’re interested in watching the process or just want to scream about FE3H and the 1st anniversary videos, please join here: [Twitch](http://www.twitch.tv/philliamplays).  
It would be nice if you leave me a comment where you’re from, so I can adapt streaming hours 👏. For now I intend to stream either on Wednesday or Saturtday evening, both around evening MESZ. Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/mariya_mey) for more details!
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

Chapter 05: Born to Trouble _  
  
_ _Man is born to trouble  
_ _as the sparks fly upward._

[Hiob 5:7]

A breeze picks up loose leaves and carries them over a steep hill. The sun, directly above your heads, emits no blazing head and still, wearing light armour and carrying weapons leaves a layer of perspiration on your forehead. Every minute marching towards where the Eagle House students and their astute professor are waiting builds worry and the desire to turn around and put as much distance as possible between you and them but the rope tying you to the task called obligation makes it impossible to sate it.

A slight pull makes you pause and scratch the thin skin under your eye, the feeling so strange as if someone is tugging your mind in the complete opposite direction. Now that is a new sensation, and you’re careful to remember that when answering the onslaught of questions Hanneman will surely prepare once he’s back. Feeling no pain, you write it off as exhaustion for now, already looking forward to relax in the sauna later and wind down.

“Is something the matter, Herald?” Dimitri asks. Save for a few scratches and a smudged cheek, he looks fine and appears to be in great spirits. You want to lick your thumb and wipe off the dirt but smearing spit on the heir of a kingdom might not be a great idea in front of his future subjects.

“Everything is fine,” you, the Liar, say with as much conviction as your conscience allows, which is surprisingly easy. Maybe you were a performer before your amnesia, acting on a stage for an audience that celebrated you switching roles with an ease like changing clothes. Dimitri as well trusts your words, though he could as well be playing the role just to lessen your worry.

The last possibility to stall the unavoidable confrontation vanishes. They are waiting for you near the stronghold just beyond the forest from which you emerge after another painful, tense march. The remaining Black Eagle students are positioned in a triangle around Byleth. At its tip stands Edelgard, strong and tall, her axe ready to strike whoever stands between her and victory. Flanking her are ever-brooding Hubert and—

“Linhardt?” you gasp, freezing on the spot which makes everyone sticking to your heels walk right into you. Sylvain only saves himself from falling because he quickly holds onto Dedue who tolerates it like a friendly bear allowing a little bird to sit on his back.

“Is he doing something?” he asks, tiptoeing to get a better look. “What’s going on?”

You point a finger at the Black Eagle student. “No one told me it was allowed to bring students back from the sidelines.”

“Because it isn’t,” Dimitri says, patiently pulling a twig out of his hair. “Those who have lost cannot re-enter the mock battle.”

You stare at everyone separately, hoping it carries enough weight for them to understand your problem—rather why is no one questioning the obvious? They consider you with as much confusion though, at least something you have in common.

“Then why is Linhardt participating again?”

They share worried glances.

“Herald, what are you talking about?” asks Dimitri with a crease between his eyebrows.

It is enough to make your next protest come out more desperate. “An hour ago, Felix and I dealt with Ferdinand and Linhardt. I told you!”

“But—” Sylvain’s face goes blank with surprise. “Didn’t you say you guys got Ferdinand and Dorothea?”

“Dorothea?” You didn’t even know she participated. “No, I swear, we— Why would I claim something different?” They lack the answer to that just as you and any minute pondering it longer is stolen by a vicious MiasmaΔ that splits a tree behind you in two.

“Hey!” Sylvain shakes a fist at Hubert. “Use magic only in moderation!”

His answer is another MiasmaΔ that nearly knocks Sylvain off his feet. Before you can form words, Edelgard takes a swing at you. The hit would have undoubtedly leave you with a concussion were it not for Dimitri’s quick intervention. He deflects her blow though his lance gives a worrying crack.

“Dimitri.” Edelgard’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s time. We can finally settle the question of who’s stronger.”

“Very well.” Dimitri’s stance doesn’t falter even as sweat gathers at his temples. “I accept your challenge. With you as my opponent, I won’t hold anything back.”

Edelgard’s mouth twitches. Dimitri demands with a sharp jut of his chin for you to get out of the way. You don’t argue. Not with the rest from the Eagle house approaching. Dedue, reading your mind, or rather the frantic look in your eyes, charges towards Byleth, leaving Linhardt and Hubert to Sylvain and you.

You focus on Linhardt, mouth burning to question, “What spell did you use to switch places with Dorothea?”

He is so baffled by that, you move without thinking—a swift strike, the sword turned midway so the blunt end smashes into his nose. He stumbles back with a sharp cry, a hand flying up to stop the blood running in rivers down his uniform. There is no time feeling bad for catching him off guard like that. A picture flashes before your eyes. You throw yourself to the ground and feel the lance swipe over your head not a second too soon. You roll back up on your feet, glaring at Hubert. He simply raises a brow in challenge. Sure, you accept, fully aware there is only one way to win against him.

“Edelgard!” you gasp in horror. Hubert’s head twitches but he doesn’t fall for your scheme.

“Really, Herald? I know Her Highness can take care of herself. You need a better trick than that.”

“Really? Then how about this trick?”

This time, Hubert whirls around and is greeted by Sylvain’s fist to his jaw. Combined with your MiasmaΔ, he doesn’t stand a chance. That victory is only short lived though. Out of nowhere, Byleth appears and knocks Sylvain out, not batting an eyelash. She towers like a vengeful spirit, arriving to seek retribution. Trying to move around her, you don’t leave her out of sight for once, your mouth dry and your heart beating so fast your ribcage hurts. The tension is thick enough your swords could cut right through it. It is so tense, in fact, you only manage a dry, “Hey.”

Byleth raises her sword. “Hello.”

“Great day to … you know.” You mirror her movement. “Clobber each other with wooden swords.”

“Less talking, more fighting.” Byleth charges.

You turn and run away.

She immediately pursues like a wolf chasing after a deer. If you weren’t so focused on moving your legs as if your life depended on it and not tripping over something, you could swear someone from the sidelines is cheering for you. Someone sounding like Claude.

“Herald, try a surprise attack! She’ll never expect you to stop and swing your sword at her!”

No, no, no, he can come down here himself if he has a death wish. But another chance emerges before you, one waiting in the lush thicket that you disappear into in hope to lose her. That hope is quickly vanquished when twigs and dry leaves break right behind you shortly after you breach the edge of the forest. In your panic, you grab onto a branch and pull it with you until you’re sure the blow will at least make Byleth stagger to catch her breath. When you let go, she already knows what you’re up to. With a vicious blow, she breaks the branch and throws her sword at you when you try to run past her back to the field. The pain is unlike anything you’ve felt during training. It brings you to your knees, the stronghold in sight and yet so far away from the forest’s borders. The impact knocks all breath out of your lungs, making you unable to call out for help.

Byleth stands before you, her sword back in her hand and risen to deliver righteous punishment—until it isn’t Byleth, it is a man, but you can’t see his face, his features hidden by dark shadows.

_Don__’t_, you think but your mouth forms “You don’t have it in you” instead and before you know it, you speak those words out loud. The picture disappears in a flash so bright, a paper bursting into flames, pain explodes in your head before everything zooms back into painfully sharp focus.

Something changes in Byleth’s eyes, her hesitation a surprise immediately costing her gravely for Dimitri appears by your side, facing her and a desperate sound of relief escapes you because that means Edelgard is out of the game. It is only a battle of stamina at this point, the battle blurring as you stumble to your feet and help Dimitri to overpower Byleth even though your back is a medley of pain. Judging from how her reacting slower, you get a picture of who from the Black Eagles was fighting the most up until this point.

Everything happens too fast. It takes one turn, one swipe of Dimitri’s lance, incredible luck that Byleth starts to get exhausted, and a second later, her knee gives in and she’s on the ground, a wooden edge to her throat. The silence is only disturbed by the second roar of trumpets signalling the end of the mock battle.

You gasp.

Dimitri gasps.

Byleth blows a strand of hair out of her face, her face a blank slate.

Screams and shouts erupt from where everyone else is waiting for you, drowning Jeralt declaring the Blue Lion’s win.

“Herald.” Dimitri’s smile dazzles you more than the sun’s light, radiant and handsome. “We did it. We did it thanks to you.”

“No, it was you—” A wave of fatigue washes over you from overusing your power. Exhaustion smothers you, so suddenly that your vision blurs around the edges. Your limbs are leaden; you feel as though you are sinking into mud. Before you hit the ground, Dimitri catches your arm and steadies you.

It is the unpredictable comedic sort of timing were the cosmos decides it is the right timing for the rest of the students to catch up.

Sylvain lets out a loud, suggestive whistle, appearing way too chipper for someone just brought back to consciousness thanks to white magic. “Who knew His Highness would decide to court someone wide out in the open like that? Did you invite our dear Herald to dinner first?”

Ingrid pushes him hard. “His Highness isn’t like you,” she says at the same time Dimitri asks, “But I do plan to invite our Herald to dinner.” All eyes are on him. It is suddenly really hot even though his gauntlets around your arm are cold. “We all are invited to celebrate our victory with a feast in the dining hall.”

“Aww, goddess help him,” Sylvain sighs, looking like he’s about to facepalm his hand through his forehead.

Any response on your part is delayed by Rhea and Seteth reaching your group after congratulating each student who participated on their work.

“Congratulations on winning the mock battle, Herald,” Rhea says, looking incredibly pleased. From the very beginning she’s probably expected nothing less and you wonder if her smile were as content had you failed. “You showed great leadership and trust in your students, who all did exceptionally well.” She’s smiling at every one of them like a proud mother. It leaves a warm, fuzzy feeling inside your chest, her contentment a beacon that banishes the last shadows of doubt in your heart. You could get addicted to this feeling.

“Now, please return to the monastery,” Seteth advises the students. “We have a few matters to discuss with the faculty members.”

As the students disperse, Dimitri quickly ducks his head in your direction. “We will speak more later.” He trails after his friends, falling into step with Dedue.

“Look at them, being so excited. How adorable.” Manuela smiles, not showing any signs of anger about losing the fight or exhaustion flicking the students back together. “Good job leading them, Herald.”

“And yet, I must advise you to participate more actively in the battle itself next time.” Seteth crosses his arms in front of his broad chest, not sharing Rhea’s idea on how a good job looks. “Professor Byleth showed great assistance and fighting spirit. You would do well to learn from her.”

Byleth gives a little shrug when you glance at her. She doesn’t seem to care much for that.

“Don’t be so stern, Seteth,” Rhea chastises him fondly. “There is still so much room to grow for all of them, our dear Herald, Professor Byleth and the students. For now, let us return and allow them a moment of respite. Their first real mission awaits them at the end of next month.”

Seteth pulls a face as if he bit into a lemon but doesn’t object.

“I have one concern myself,” you quickly throw in before tracking back, wondering how no one else mentions it. “When Linhardt and Dorothea—”

“I would like a word,” Byleth suddenly says, grasping your wrist lightly in such an easy, familiar way you immediately shut up. They leave you two to it as you follow them a couple hundred feet behind, both silent though the voice in your mind doesn’t shut up about the dozen of questions bouncing back and forth. After what feels like hours, Byleth finally says, “You noticed it, didn’t you?”

You stare at the road, a yawning void in your head where just a second ago a cacophony of questions caused a headache, unable to put two and two together. When it finally clicks, you wipe your head so fast in her direction it pops in your neck. “It was you? How did you do it?”

Byleth doesn’t answer immediately. Her gaze drifts over the treetops, calmly swaying from left to right. The battle has concluded half an hour ago, but it already feels like a lifetime has passed and the peace and quiet of nature around you is like a completely different world. The land surrounding the monastery is exceptionally beautiful, luscious and overgrown with flora that covers the ground in a colourful patchwork rug. How the rest of Fódlan must look like…

“When we first met, you asked how I could trust you. It will sound strange but you and I, we are connected.” She’s still looking up ahead, now at the towering spires of the monastery piercing the sky.

Your mouth is dry. “Connected how?”

She stops now. When she turns and looks at you, again the thread that ties you two together strums in an ancient tune. You stop breathing for that second.

“You control the flow of the future, and I control the flow of the past.”

You still don’t understand. Byleth reads as much from your lack of response. “What I mean to say is, I rewind time. When you defeated Linhardt, I turned back time’s hands to have Dorothea walk his path instead to keep my healer. I just never expected anyone would notice. And no one did. Except you.”

It’s like those words don’t reach you. They recoil from a waterfall that rushes through your ears, distorting the words. When your brain finally finishes freaking out about it, only one thing appears of importance. “You cheated!”

Byleth wears an expression that clearly states, _That__’s rich coming from you_.

“I— That—” How can she remain so calm? This information tilts your world, turning every hour you spent lying awake at night in your chambers wondering if you’re the only one with a power like that into a painful memory. “Does that mean you have a Crest as well? If our powers are alike, surely there must be an answer to why we have it. If we talk to Hanneman about it—”

“You won’t,” Byleth cuts you off, her tone as sharp as her sword. “You will share no word with anyone about what I just revealed, or I will strike you down.”

The wind picks up, flickering your robes left and right and rocking trees that bow in humility to a force much greater than them—a feeling you can relate to. Cold sweat runs down the back of your neck. This isn’t a threat. It’s a promise.

“You spend too much time with Hubert,” you manage with a trembling smile only held together when the tension dissipates from Byleth’s face.

“Professor Hanneman is still studying my Crest,” she says, a tinge of sorrow in her voice that strikes you harder than any danger or threat, “but I can assure you my abilities are not tied to it. I’m sorry.”

She must have felt what you so desperately wished for: a connection. The assurance that you are not alone in this world with this strange power.

It makes the way back to the monastery like a march through mud, laden limbs walking towards a goal you don’t know will be worth all the exertion. When the silence becomes too unbearable, you build up the courage to ask, “What are we, Byleth?”

She drops her gaze to the ground. It is the very first time you see uncertainty hover like a shadow over her face. “I wish I could tell you, but I don’t know.”

The sky turns an orange canvas when you finally return to the monastery. The last villagers from the small town downhill start returning home, their tools laid to rest inside their carriages. You can’t wait to sink into a nice hot bath, washing away the dried sweat and grime from the battle and change into loose, comfortable evening robes. You don’t come further than past the entrance hall. Leaning against a high pillar, Dimitri is adjusting the loops on his gauntlets, blond strands falling into his face like golden strips of sunshine. Before you reach him, Byleth says with a light touch to your elbow, “Please see Professor Manuela about your wound, okay? You did great today.” You promise her you will and watch her until she disappears through a hall leading to her personal quarters.

With your attention on him, Dimitri looks up and stands straighter. He grins at you, his smile sudden and jarring like a thunderclap.

“I have been waiting for you, Herald,” he says and takes you by the wrist. The cold of his gauntlets bites at your skin, making you hiss. His hand immediately drops, and he turns around in panic. “Oh, apologies. It is difficult to control my strength sometimes and—”

“No, no, that’s not it. I was just a little surprised.” 

He sighs in relief. “Still, I am sorry. I will try to refrain from doing that in the future.”

“Dimitri.” You graze his clothed underarm with a finger, unsure if that was a wise decision when his eyes widen in surprise. How is it you only notice now how long his eyelashes are? “I think we have seen today I am not that fragile.”

His eyes jump away, avoiding contact, the blush creeping up his neck clearly standing out against his pale skin. He clears his throat. “I just wanted to make sure you will join us for dinner. I was not joking earlier when I said we should all celebrate our victory.”

“Are you guys sure? I’m not your teacher and in the end, I didn’t do all too much.”

Dimitri shakes his head. “Nonsense. You fought with us and led us to victory. We would love to celebrate with you, and while you won’t be with us all the time, I’d love nothing more than to share our happiness with you. Joy can be so fleeting, after all, and I’m sure the rest of the class feels the very same.”

“If it really is okay with you all…” You glimpse over at him. Why not. Why not enjoy some leisure time with the students. You could surely use it to get to know them better and distract your thoughts from Byleth’s revelation. “Just give me some time to get ready. I’ll see you in the dining hall.”

“Actually, please come to our classroom,” Dimitri says. “I don’t know how Sylvain managed it, but the kitchen’s head lady allowed us to dine in the classroom.”

Your brows fly to your hairline. Dimitri answers with a little, low chuckle. You both have a pretty good idea how he managed to pull that stunt.

Back in your quarters, you wash away the dirt and pick a simple robe the colour of freshly pressed parchment. The water’s heat renders today’s injuries to a dull pain save for the scrapes on your knees that still burn but are clean now. Hunger quickly catches up as well, dispersing your last doubts of intruding the class’ celebration. After leaving your room, you stop by the infirmary where Manuela makes quick work of your remaining wounds with her magic, turning purple bruises into faded yellow spots you immediately forget once you step out and head to your destination.

The tables are already laid, arranged into a formation that resembles a circle allowing conversations to flow easily. You expected them to be already stuffing their faces but when you step into the Blue Lion’s classroom, the only source of light is a dim candle flickering in the middle of some students huddled together. Only Mercedes’ soft voice is audible, not counting the little whimpers from Annette or Ashe shuffling as he tries to hide behind Dimitri who appears to be the only one invested in her story.

“… no one knows how deep the tunnels underneath the monastery run. But once they reach where walls are built from skulls and bones, they turn and go back … or try to do so, for who knows what horror lurks behind every corner.”

“Nooooooo,” Annette cries, clutching to Dimitri’s sleeve. “Why would anyone go somewhere like that?”

“A-and who built it in the first place? Tunnels lined with bones…” Ashe shudders, still looking smaller than Dimitri even though he is the one sitting.

“A fascinating idea.” Dimitri’s excitement, bright as a spark, doesn’t bounce over to his friends. “To imagine there could be a whole civilisation living right in plain sight like that.”

“I can’t imagine we wouldn’t notice,” Ashe reasons. His conviction would be more credible, would he not still cling to a white tail of Dimitri’s shirt. Before you can join and see if you would fare better listening to stories about haunted and forgotten places, Sylvain steals past you, his voice making you jump. “Shouldn’t you guys be finished by now?”

Seeing your sour expression, he simply winks and hurries inside, carrying a big steaming pot. Followed by the rest of the Lions, they carry plates with dried meat, slices of bread, vegetables and cheese, and place them on the tables for everyone to just pick whatever they want. With a flick of your wrist flames flicker to life inside both fireplaces and the candles on top of the chandelier above your heads. Everyone hurries to find a seat. The students have all changed out of their battle garments into the academy’s summer uniform, its fabric much lighter than the heavy embroidered regular uniform they wore upon your first meeting.

“My dear friends.” Dimitri raises a cup, holding the thin stem between slender fingers. It would look more elegant were its contents not simply orange juice. “To our victory today and many more to follow.”

They raise their cups to toast except for Felix who knocks his drink back as if it were strong liquor he desperately needed to sit through this evening gathering. He doesn’t look as pale as before. A quick check up by Manuela after the battle affirmed that he was alright and simply fatigued from countless sleepless nights spent at the Training Grounds.

The other participants don’t look too bad either. Bruises that vividly blossomed hours ago have faded, swollen purple eyes already start to heal—all certainly thanks to Manuela’s quick work. Sylvain surely won’t be as successful chasing girls with a shiner that makes the prettiest violet jealous of his colour and Dimitri tries to hide it but you don’t miss him tensing from time to time or moving his hand towards his side; probably a bruised rib he doesn’t want anyone to know. He catches your stare and offers a slight, boyish grin under half-closed eyes that only whispers of a shared secret only meant for you two. It does a funny thing to your stomach, a flip or drop, a light twist like missing a step and the fear of falling only to meet solid ground a split second later. You quickly look away and focus on spreading curd on a loaf of bread, not trying to think too much about how the muscles strained under his clothes wielding his lance or the fierce determination colouring his eyes a shade brighter when victory is in palpable proximity.

You feel a piercing gaze, hot like a solid touch on your skin. Quickly whipping your head around, you catch Felix’s glare from across the room, completely ignoring whatever Sylvain is telling him. It leaves you completely tense for the rest of the dinner, wondering what his problem is and why he is so hostile towards Dimitri specifically. You’ve heard from some students who have walked into an argument those two had, something about a massacre two years ago but details, as is their nature, grow hazy over time and distort until they evolve into something completely different and unrecognisable.

Felix holds your gaze for a long second, and it is only later after you all clean the classroom from your festivities and decide to retire to bed that you catch him by himself. The monastery at night is a desolate, lonely place save for a couple stray souls wandering about, either on their way to their chamber or out for a quick, last evening prayer inside the chapel. Felix’s destination is none of those as he strides towards the Training Grounds and you call out to him. He slows but doesn’t stop his step until you catch up. “You’re on your way to training, right? Shouldn’t you call it a day? Especially after what happened—”

“I’ve got no time sitting around and making smalltalk,” Felix snaps, and a month ago you would have thought he aimed his anger towards you but recently you’ve discovered he’s towards the whole world—always glaring, always hissing like a cornered, wounded animal. “There are more important matters like growing stronger—”

“And suffering from overexertion, I suppose.”

Felix pulls a grimace. “It was a mistake I don’t tend to repeat. You saw Professor Byleth’s strength. It took two of you to win, and even then, it was mostly luck. I just want to try out some moves Professor Byleth exerted today so I can surpass her strength next time I challenger her.”

“Why is it that you seek to fight so much?” you ask, deciding forwardness to be a better approach than idle chatter with a person like Felix. He doesn’t give immediate response, not because he ignores you, as is your first assumption, but because he gives it some thought.

“Why, hm… I learnt to thrust a sword before I learnt to write my name. This is how it is for all children in my country, the perfect environment where I could live free of stodgy values and virtues. Grow strong so you may live, and live to grow stronger. That’s what I was taught.”

It is no secret Faerghus is the land of knights and chivalry, and still it is hard to imagine a small version of Felix wielding a sword even before he learnt how to use a quill, scraped knees instead of black inked fingertips. What a strange world.

“As long as you don’t forget to take a break should it get too much. Everyone was worried today.”

“Everyone should mind their own business. I’m not their problem, and they aren’t mine.”

You’re too tired to argue relationships don’t work like that, any minute longer on your feet and they’ll simply give out. Wishing Felix a goodnight, you turn towards the chapel but don’t get very far.

“Herald.” Felix is halfway through the door. “Let me give you one advice.”

“That is?”

“Don’t get too close to that damn boar.”

You’re about to ask what he’s talking about, but he continues, “Beneath all that princely polish, he’s an animal, nothing more. He’s strong and skilled, sure. But don’t place your trust in him as a human being. Take care he doesn’t chew you up and spit you out.”

Not waiting for a response, Felix moves on, leaving you with more questions than answers. Every creature with two eyes can see hostility between Dimitri and Felix crackling like lightning about to strike the ground and burn down forests and villages. But to go this far and say these words about his future king … Words that couldn’t be more contrary to the impression he’s left on you.

Whatever Felix wanted to accomplish, his words succeed to remain in your head the whole night, driving off any sleep you direly needed after that day. But even without that, your mind is occupied with questions. It is like stumbling into a spider web, sticky tangles everywhere with no way out.

Who is that man you remembered? It was such a brief, yet striking memory, of what moment you cannot recall. His hostility was evident in his stance, sharp sword high up to drive down with enough force to cut your head from your shoulders. And yet here you are.

And your words, _You don__’t have it in you_. If you were familiar enough with that person to know this, who was he to you, and what had stopped him? Did he have a change of heart and instead used the blunt end, giving you a concussion and amnesia instead? Where is he now? And would he return to finish his work?

Since that day, you look out for anyone fitting that built: tall and lean, visible even through robes with a design completely different from anything you’ve seen around the monastery. Asking Rhea or Seteth could be an option, but strangely enough, you don’t want to reveal it to anyone yet, not until you’ve found an answer yourself first.

That is how your first moon at the monastery passes. Now there are more questions than before, more secrets to carry with no clear goal in sight. Lessons continue, you attend seminars and life unfolds in Garreg Mach, surprising you how easy it is growing accustomed and familiar with the place and its people—some more so than others.

Byleth still invites you to her obligatory weekend-tea time sessions, rarely accepting no for an answer even though tea isn’t really what you consume to wind down. She’s acting like your talk after the mock battle has never happened and you do your best to mimic her even though you’d love nothing more than to see her power in battle. That opportunity shows at the end of the following month when Byleth and her class are tasked to deal with bandits the knights cornered in Zanado, the Red Canyon, but Rhea has different plans and instead sends you with the Golden Deer House to the village at the foot of the mountain to help clear debris a flooding left on one of the main roads leading to Alliance territory. It takes two days until the stench from the muddy riverbank is completely washed out of your hair.

There is still no sight of the man from your memory, even though word about the Herald’s return has reached every corner of Fódlan by now. It makes you wonder if it’s less a matter of if and rather when he sets food inside the monastery. No additional memory has resurfaced, no sudden epiphany provides explanation and you doubt that will change even though Seteth drags you inside the chapel to pray for the goddess’ help whenever his time allows. Mostly, you use those occasions to ask her to make Raphael and Ingrid leave some Nirvana Cake for you.

Then there is your other little secret of course. After another month of waking to an indistinguishable voice calling out to you every once in a while, you’ve grown used to it, finding a strange comfort in someone or something looking over you. Maybe it is the goddess. Maybe she is trying to reach out to tell you something important, to give divine insight and reach out to her followers. You just hope once she comes through to you, her words won’t proclaim hardships and sorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope someone makes a “why are you running” meme when Herald runs away from Byleth.
> 
> Also we all know Byleth would kick everyone’s ass, we gotta give Reader some confidence before crushing it for plot purposes. Also, one part I wrote while being tipsy and horny on main, guess what part it is.
> 
> I’m trying to keep chapters around 5.5k - 6k from now on unless you guys want longer chapters.
> 
> Any kind of support is highly appreciated [here](https://ko-fi.com/philliam). I am back but updates might take a while because I’m working a job to help my disabled sister paying her study and moving costs. 🙏


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